


talk about a dream, try to make it real

by jugheadjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Multi, and they were ROOMMATES, other characters will be added as they appear! - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23879107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: “Hi, I’m Gladys.” She puts a hand out to Fred, flicking some hair out of her eyes and revealing an eyebrow piercing. Apart from cocking her head slightly to one side, she doesn’t comment on the hurricane of emotions she’d just walked in on. FP hurriedly checks his watch and stifles a groan. It was five already. “I’m here about the room?”A parentdale college/university AU.
Relationships: Alice Cooper/Hal Cooper, Fred Andrews & Gladys Jones, Fred Andrews/FP Jones II, Gladys Jones/Mary Andrews, Hal Cooper & Hiram Lodge, Penelope Blossom/Sierra McCoy, Tom Keller/Sierra McCoy
Comments: 21
Kudos: 25





	1. FP

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexualfpjones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualfpjones/gifts).



> This fic is a spiritual successor to [tying faith between our teeth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17813252) but possibly not a perfect sequel. You don't have to read it first, but you can enjoy it if you want some backstory on FP's first year of school! 
> 
> I couldn't think of a title so I just used a bruce springsteen lyric, I might change it. (insert obligatory talk about how if dreams came true wouldnt that be nice etc etc ive been working real hard trying to get my hands clean to buy you a gold ring and pretty dress of blue) 
> 
> Next chapter is from Gladys' perspective! Thanks for reading.

**_1994._ **

No sooner had their prospective roommate lumbered down the front steps than Fred Andrews spins on his heel with a flourish and slams the apartment door behind him. 

“No way!” he declares cheerfully, crossing the room to where FP was mulling over some bills. “Let’s hope the last person is more normal than these four.” 

“What was the matter with him?” FP asks, a frown lining his face. He glances at the notepad where Fred had been keeping the names of possible tenants for their small spare bedroom. Every one but the last was crossed off. _Vigorously._

“You mean besides the fact that he smoked like a haystack?” Fred wrinkles his nose disdainfully and sails past FP into the small kitchen. “We said no smoking on the ad. You know I hate smoking. This place would smell like an ashtray.” 

FP let out a long breath and folded his arms over his chest, surveying his boyfriend as Fred stared into their empty fridge. He closes it. “I smoke,” FP points out diplomatically, trying to keep his voice even. 

“Yeah, but I make you do it out on the porch!” Fred cracks an easy smile. “Besides, you’re a _cute_ ashtray. Look, let’s just hold out for our five-o-clock appointment. Maybe it’ll be someone young and cute.” 

FP can feel his jaw tightening. When the two of them had moved into a two-bedroom off-campus apartment at the beginning of FP’s sophomore year, they had optimistically hoped that they’d be able to split the rent and utilities between them. Only a few months in, though, the bills were starting to pile up. Money and tempers had been tight recently, which was why FP had been so relieved when they’d decided to put an ad out for a third roommate. 

Relieved, that was, until Fred had cheerfully turned each and every one of them down, with his same off-beat, unflappable brand of cheerfulness. Usually FP loved to see Fred happy, but the three dollars and fourteen cents he currently had to last him until his next payday had infused the situation with an urgentness that Fred seemed immune to. 

“We don’t need someone young and cute, we need someone who can write us a cheque. You can’t keep holding out for this imaginary cute roommate. They don’t exist.” 

Fred pouts, but playfully. His brown eyes are still warm, dancing with humour. “You’re just jealous. All right, all right.” He drifts closer and pinches FP’s cheek. “I already have a cute roommate. I don’t need another one.” 

FP clears his throat and looks down at the list of potentials, forcing himself not to be swayed from the task at hand by Fred’s big brown eyes. “I think it would be bearable. The smoking.” 

Fred shudders. “FP, there’s a difference between the occasional cigarette and whatever that guy was doing. You could smell it coming off him. He walked in here in a cloud of smoke! He must do three packs a day, easy. It’s not practical to live with.” 

A twinge of annoyance spears through FP’s chest. “Our room is upstairs. His room is downstairs. We can tell him to open a window. You don’t think you could put up with it for the rest of the year?” 

“No,” says Fred, folding his arms. “I don’t. I’m not trying to be difficult, but I’m not budging on this. It was on the ad.” 

“Then we’re going to have to go with one of the people we’ve already passed over. _If_ they haven’t found another place yet.” 

“No, FP!” They’d interviewed four other roommates that week, and Fred had somehow found fault with all of them. FP had to admit some of the faults were pretty glaring. One girl had told them on the spot that she and her boyfriend were a packaged set and that he’d be over every night. Another was almost definitely a felon. “Let’s just wait and see who else replies to the ad. Someone nice is bound to turn up. You could make a new friend.” 

Leave it to Fred to be so blissfully, naively idealistic. FP groans and buries his face in his hands. 

“Fred, I have three dollars in my bank account! Not in my wallet. My _bank account._ My paycheck doesn’t come until Thursday, and even then, you know how little I make working part-time. We are drowning in bills, here! We have nothing to eat! Our phone is on the verge of getting disconnected! I had to pay for the bus yesterday with pennies! And you want to make friends!” 

“I know you’re broke! I’m broke too!” Fred lifts his shoulders in a _what can you do_ gesture. “Everyone’s broke, FP. But it always works out. We’ll find a roommate who can pay and who we can live with. Okay?” 

“No, it’s not okay!” FP snaps, throwing his hands down. “We don’t have to _like_ them, Fred, they just have to split the bills with us. We’ll see our five o’ clock appointment, but if they’re not the one I’m _calling_ this guy. I mean it.” 

“But don’t you think it would be an added bonus if we liked them?” 

For once FP isn’t swayed by Fred’s angelic, hopeful expression. He starts pacing around the small kitchen attached to their front entryway, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Fred, you keep trying to talk me down, but I’m not hearing any solutions. I wish you’d take this seriously.” 

“Well, maybe it’s not as serious as you think it is! We don’t have to find a roommate today. And that guy had issues other than being a smoker, but you don’t want to hear them because you’re just all _fixated-_ ” 

“What do we do when we turn all of these people down, Fred? Eat the utility bills? Move back to your mom’s house, a hundred miles away? Just so you don’t have to smell a cigarette once in a while?” 

Fred’s sunny disposition was rapidly falling. “Sorry that I’m not letting you make me the bad guy,” he argues, his eyebrows pinched together in a straight line. His voice is sharp and tense. “I want our apartment to be a nice, _smoke-free_ place. I also haven’t heard you say anything about how you expect us to miraculously find someone who’s going to be okay with us sleeping together. That cigarette dude was a hate crime waiting to happen.” 

FP grits his teeth. The elephant in the room. He had no idea how he was going to introduce to any potential roommate the fact that he and Fred shared a bedroom, never mind the fact that they liked to greet each other with kisses and sweet talk in the mornings. _We’ll make it work somehow,_ FP had intoned when they were discussing it, but neither of them were confident in a solution. Not that there was much danger of those kisses now. Fred’s evil eye was currently burning a hole through FP’s forehead. 

“Oh, now you care about that,” FP argues, too pissed off to back down. “You never listened to me worry about it before! All you do is shrug and tell me it’s going to be okay, and we’ll find someone _nice,_ and no one will care, and one day we’ll get _married_ and our third fucking roommate will be so happy for us, but that’s not the real world, Fred. You have no idea what’s it’s like to be-” 

“Gay?!” Fred interrupts, his jaw hanging open. “You are seriously being such a martyr right now.” He throws his hands in the air. “I don’t even remember what we’re fighting about!” 

“You don’t remember because you never take anything seriously!” 

Fred slaps his forehead exaggeratedly. “Right, pardon me, you were having a breakdown about how if we don’t ask a chainsmoker to move in with us our world will end. And apparently you understand the perils of being _gay_ so much more than I do, because you’ve clearly been sleeping with a _straight_ guy all this time, right?!” 

“Fred!” FP could have screamed in frustration. “I’m broke!” 

“You’re also obsessed with getting lung cancer!” Fred drops into a chair, his legs splayed out in a position of fake nonchalance as he yells at him. He plants both hands on the table. “Stop acting like money is the most important thing in the world!” 

FP grits his teeth and approaches him. “Maybe this is brand new news to you, but _money_ means the difference between life or death for some people. In case you forgot, I didn’t grow up in a nice suburban house. I don’t have a mom writing my cheques every month. My dad disowned me, Fred. The money I have has been mine and mine alone since he found out I was gay and turned me out on my ass. After nearly beating me to _death_ , I might add. You say you’re broke, Fred, but you have a full time job. Your mom is helping you with the rent every month. I don’t have a parent’s checkbook to fall back upon. I don’t have a cushion like you do. This is my life, Fred. All of it.” 

Fred gets up quicker than a flash. In an instant, FP realizes his mistake. But it’s too late. The words are already out. 

“Fuck,” he says quietly, putting his hands out in front of him. “Fred, listen -” 

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to be broke?” Fred asks. His voice is trembling, but he manages to keep it low and even, despite the angry tears sparkling in his eyes. “You think I have it real easy, huh? I’ve just been sitting on my ass draining mommy and daddys’ trust fund, right? That’s how you see me?” 

“Fred-” FP speaks up, his shoulder slumping. Fred was right. He’d spoken without thinking and put his foot in his mouth. But Fred simply wipes a tear hastily from his cheek and faces him down, his face turning red with anger. The two of them were overdue for a proper fight - they’d been pushing each other’s buttons since the topic of roommates had come up almost three weeks ago. 

“FP, my mom’s money is MY MONEY!” Fred bellows. “I made it! If she bails me out on rent that is _my_ business, and _all_ of the money that she is sending me came from my job! Do you know why I’m not in college? Have you forgotten? You think you have the monopoly on struggling?” He stalks up to FP and jabs him in the chest. 

“I had to watch as my parents gave up everything they’d ever worked for to try and save my dad, and it still wasn’t enough! And it was me working all that time to pay for the funeral and keep me and my mom alive. Me, FP! _Me_ trying to graduate high school and put food in our mouths at the same time! 

I know what it’s like to go to bed hungry! I know what it’s like to spend your whole paycheck on bills! And if you think my mom wouldn’t bail you out the same way she’d bail me out if you really needed it, you’re crazy. But _sure_ , you’re right.” Sarcasm drips from his tone. “You’re a hero for coming here from the trailer park with a full ride scholarship, and I’m just some overprivileged jerk who works a sixty hour work week for kicks.” 

An angry sob explodes its way out of Fred’s mouth as he turns and starts striding furiously towards the door, which was being knocked on from outside. His hand on the doorknob, he whirls around. “If you still see me as some spoiled little middle class brat, then maybe you’d like to pay the rent on this place all on your own! Maybe I ought to leave!” 

“Fred-” FP yells, raising the volume of his voice to compensate for the pit opening up in his chest. “Will you just listen to me-” 

Fury snaps from Fred’s eyes like hot sparks. “I’m done listening to you! Oh, and one more thing, douchebag!” Fred yells over his shoulder, throwing the door open. “I’m just as gay as you are!” 

Thundering silence. The door had flung open to reveal one of the hottest girls FP had ever seen. Her dark brown hair was loose and fringed around her face, her deep brown eyes surrounded by long lashes and a liberal amount of smokey eye makeup. She was wearing a form-fitted leather jacket and had a guitar case slung over her back. She looks from Fred to FP and back again. 

“Hi, I’m Gladys.” She puts a hand out to Fred, flicking some hair out of her eyes and revealing an eyebrow piercing. Apart from cocking her head slightly to one side, she doesn’t comment on the hurricane of emotions she’d just walked in on. FP hurriedly checks his watch and stifles a groan. It was five already. “I’m here about the room?” 

* * *

“Come on in, Gladys,” says FP tensely, leading her past the kitchen and into their living room. Fred walks quietly at his side, his face smoothed over into an expression of polite nonchalance. Only a flush of pink high on his cheeks remains from the confrontation. FP touches his own cheek with the back of his hand and can feel his face burning like an oven. 

Gladys sets her guitar down and drops into their overstuffed armchair - FP’s favourite piece of furniture, a Fairwill monstrosity that Fred claimed was one broken spring away from a trip to the dump. This leaves only the sofa for Fred and FP, and they sit politely side by side, a gap of at least two feet between them. 

“So, you’re a student?” FP asks, when Fred makes absolutely no move to speak. Gladys crosses her legs, looking effortlessly nonchalant. She makes no mention of their screaming match, and neither of them acknowledges it. 

“At State, yeah.” She inclines her head with a pearly-white smile to indicate the vague direction of campus. “I’m an English lit major. Wait, let me guess.” She cocks a finger at Fred and FP in turn. “You look like a Fred, so FP must be you.” 

“Initials,” FP grunts as explanation. He feels like an idiot for not bothering to introduce themselves, but Gladys was clearly sharp enough to hold her own. 

“What year are you?” asks Fred politely, finding his voice, and FP lets out a deep breath. An unspoken truce shimmers between them - conditional on Gladys’ presence. The second she walked out they’d probably be fighting again. 

“Second year,” Gladys replies. “Sophomore.” 

“Me too,” FP answers, scrutinizing her. His gaze lands on the guitar case, and he hesitates internally as he remembers Fred turning down a prospective roommate who played in an accordion trio. 

“We’re a packaged set, unfortunately,” Gladys speaks up, as though reading his mind. She touches the guitar case reflexively, and FP notices Fred watching her closely. Before their eyes, Gladys unzips it tenderly and reveals a shining acoustic guitar. 

Fred’s eyes are glued to the instrument, and FP feels a sudden pang in his stomach. Guilt, recognition, but mostly sadness. Fred hadn’t touched a guitar since he was seventeen. He’d sold his prized possession when his family was struggling, and he hadn’t owned one since. There was always somewhere else for the money to go - car repair, help for his mom back home, some bill or crisis or medical expense. And even if he had the extra, FP felt sure Fred would never spend it on himself.

FP had always meant to buy back Fred’s guitar for him - _any_ guitar - had fantasized about it for years, but the shape of his bank account wasn’t going to make that a reality any time soon. He locks his eyes on the side of his boyfriend’s head, already tortured by regret from their fight as he fixes his gaze on Fred’s caramel-highlighted hair. 

_Once we make up, I will buy you a guitar. I will buy you the most beautiful guitar you’ve ever seen. Whatever it takes._

“I do have to practice, but I promise I’m not awful to listen to.” Gladys’ voice cuts into his thoughts. FP had almost forgotten she was there. “I’d never play it in the middle of the night, or anything. I understand no one wants to take a chance on a roommate with a guitar, but I’m very courteous.” 

“Honestly, we’re a whole floor away from you,” FP replies. He can play nice. “We probably won’t even hear you.” 

“And we both like music,” Fred speaks up, his voice chipper and friendly. You’d have to have known him your whole life to hear the thread of sadness in it. “It’s no problem.” 

Gladys smiles. “I’m a very normal person, otherwise” she insists, idly scratching a tear in her ripped jeans. “No witchcraft - well, not much, anyway. I pull late nights sometimes, but I’m quiet about it. I’m not into the whole party scene, so don’t worry about that. Not on campus, at least. If I drink, I tend to go elsewhere. I’m polite and I’m good at doing dishes.” 

“As long as it’s quiet witchcraft, we can deal,” Fred chirps warmly, obviously smitten. He flashes Gladys his winning smile, and Gladys grins right back at him. 

“Do you want to see the room?” Fred asks, bouncing to his feet with a semblance of his old energy. 

Gladys nods, and Fred leads them into the small bedroom attached to the kitchen. When they’d rented the place, it was supposed to have been FP’s - that was, if anyone involved in the renting (FP, Fred, Fred’s mother) truly believed that they were going to sleep in separate beds. Gladys spreads her arms out and turns around, admiring the cramped, unimpressive space from all angles. 

“It looks great,” she declares, opening and closing the window in a businesslike manner. _Low maintenance_ , FP decides, begrudgingly admiring her for it. She strolls back down the hall towards the armchair, already looking like she lives there as her hips sway from side to side.

“Do you smoke?” FP asks suddenly, placing a light hand on Fred’s elbow. 

Gladys raises her eyebrows. “I’m trying to quit.” 

“Perfect.” Fred slips out from behind FP and sticks out his hand. “Gladys, how would you feel about being our new roommate?” 

A gorgeous grin spreads across Gladys’ face. “If I write you a cheque for my share of the rent, can I move in tomorrow?” 

“Sounds perfect!” Fred beams, but makes the smile disappear when he and FP lock eyes. Gladys sits back down in the armchair and rifles through her bag, and Fred flops back onto the sofa, following suit. 

“I can do that right now,” says Gladys, opening a black-covered chequebook and uncapping a pen. She glances up at the pair of them. “Who should I make it out to?” 

“You can make it out to Forsythe Jones,” says Fred, his even voice betraying no outward animosity. FP winces imperceptibly all the same. “He’s the one chomping at the bit to get it in the bank.” 

Fred folds the cheque in half that Gladys hands him and holds it out to FP with two fingers. FP’s heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice as he takes it and tucks it into his shirt pocket. He’d deposit it on the way to class. And then maybe he’d start thinking of ways to get Fred to forgive him for being an enormous asshole about everything. 

Gladys and Fred chat for a bit, and then Gladys swings her guitar up onto her back and announces she’s running late for a music class. FP trails both of them awkwardly into the hallway, relieved and guilt-ridden at the same time as Fred hands Gladys her key. 

“I couldn’t help overhearing a bit of your discussion,” Gladys mentions as she’s zipping up her coat. 

FP freezes in place, and Fred’s smile slips a bit. Fight or no fight, FP wants desperately to lock eyes with him, but Fred looks away. 

“I’m very gay,” says Gladys confidently. “So I wouldn’t worry about a thing.” 

* * *

Fred had left for work as soon as Gladys was out the door, and FP had walked to the bank and his last class of the day before jogging to the football field for their nightly practice. He had stopped briefly next to the bank downtown to look in the music store window, and his heart had rushed up into his throat at the sight of the cherry-red guitar on the display. It was made for Fred, no doubt about it. _Fred’s guitar_ \- and a glance at the price tag confirmed it cost more than half of the cheque Gladys had just written him. 

For a second he’d wanted to just do it. But Fred would understandably throw a fit if FP had put on such a big show about their finances just to blow that much money on a present. 

Stowing his hands in his pockets, FP had walked back to campus as though under a raincloud. Somehow or other, he needed money. Christmas was coming up - he was starting to fantasize about leading Fred downstairs on Christmas morning and turning him to face a beautifully wrapped but unmistakably guitar-shaped object leaning up against the wall. It would be the only thing in their wide open living room besides the spindly, decorated-with-love Christmas tree they’d pull out of some pine lot together. Just the two of them, alone in their house like a newly-married couple, and Fred tearing into shiny wrapping paper just for his eyes to light up like a little kid with a new sled. _That_ was what FP wanted more than anything. 

It was a little unrealistic now - they always went to Mrs. Andrews’ house for Christmas morning, and they had a third roommate in the picture as of this afternoon. But he could get Fred that guitar. He could do that much. _Somehow._

Jogging from class to football practice always made him feel warmed-up and strong, but walking home in the dark after was a pain in the ass. Still, Fred had every right to take the car to work - the construction site was further from their duplex than the football field, and the hours of hard labour that Fred put in trumped even their coach’s hardest workouts. 

Today had been scheduled to be Fred’s day off, but he’d been called in at the last minute to cover the end of someone’s shift. He’d be home by ten, and then FP had every intention of groveling at his feet until Fred forgave him. If this was truly going to be their last night alone together before Gladys moved in, he wanted them to spend it making up. 

Walking home from football practice through the darkening twilight, his muscles aching with every step, he’s surprised to find the house isn’t as empty as he had left it. The front door is hanging open, a radio is blasting Joan Jett somewhere inside, and there’s a motorbike and a black truck parked in the driveway. As he walks up to the front porch he’s almost run over by Gladys, carrying a cardboard box with a stack of books overflowing out the top. 

“Woah,” says FP loudly, wondering if he’d made a mistake already. “I thought you were moving in tomorrow.” 

“I was, but my friend was only free to help me move today.” Gladys sets the heavy box down in the hall. “I’m crashing at her place, and she wanted me out. So here I am.” 

Just then, the friend in question skips up the front steps, her crimped blonde hair sticking up over the top of a box of cassettes. The newcomer is wearing snakeskin boots with a cleavage-baring top and fishnets that make Gladys’ gothic outfit look matronly by comparison. At the sight of FP she licks her lips, exposing a tongue piercing.

“Who’s this, your sorority sister?” FP cracks rudely. He’s well aware he’s not making any friends right now, but he’s still too touchy from his fight with Fred to care. Gladys really isn’t doing anything wrong, but she’s intruding on his perfect vision of the evening, and it’s enough to get his hackles raised. 

Gladys looks unbothered, but puts her hand politely on the blonde’s shoulder. “FP, this is Penny Peabody. Penny, this is FP.” 

“Mmm!” Penny’s eyes brighten, and she throws an arm around FP’s sweaty frame, squeezing him like a python. “Does he come with the place?” 

“I’m going upstairs,” FP grunts rudely, disentangling himself from her arm. 

“Out of luck, Penny,” he hears Gladys tease as he’s climbing the stairs. He pauses near the top, wondering if the topic of his sexuality is about to come up. But Gladys, to her credit, says nothing about it. “Now go get my movies, will you?” 

Penny glances up at the stairwell, giving FP an evil glare before heading towards the door. It slams behind her, and FP shakes his head, stepping into his and Fred’s bedroom and closing the door securely. 

He drops his football gear onto the floor before remembering that Fred hates tripping over his stuff. FP quickly opens the closet and shuts it inside. That done, he showers and shaves on auto-pilot, dressing in the sweats and T-shirt he wears to sleep and trying to focus on the book he had to read for class. When focusing becomes impossible he puts it away, staring up at the ceiling and rehearsing the apology he plans to deliver. 

From his bedroom, he gradually hears the radio turn off and the front door shut for the last time. He can’t tell if Gladys has gone out or if she’s just retreated to her room. FP stares out their one window, which shudders in the pane whenever a particularly strong gust of wind blows up against it. He’s so used to the sound by now that it can lull him to sleep. 

Around ten-thirty he hears the rattle of Fred’s car pulling up, and a moment later, the slam of the front door. He lets his shoulders slump in relief, the want of seeing his boyfriend suddenly blotting out all other feelings. His rehearsed apology has completely gone out of his head, but he doesn’t care. He just wants Fred to climb into bed with him and talk to him, wants to say he’s sorry and he couldn’t stand hurting him and he’d never ever do it again. That he loved him forever and the thought of this coming between them was too much to bear. 

He’d spend his whole life making it up to Fred if he had to. He’d iron his shirts, he’d vacuum his car, he’d give him foot massages, he’d carry him to bed every night, he’d - 

FP realizes that he’s been lying in silence for a long time. He waits, listening carefully, in case Fred had just decided to have something to eat in the small kitchen. But the wooden stairs - notoriously creaky - betray no approaching footstep. Fred wasn’t coming up. 

At quarter past eleven he creeps to the top of the stairs, where he can see down into the living room. The TV is on, and Fred and Gladys are both sitting in front of a movie, the blue light flickering on their features. Fred looks normal, happy even, if tired. Gladys has a smile on her face, Fred’s afghan pulled up over her legs. 

FP chews his lip, wondering if he should go down and join them. Maybe he could smooth things over. Or maybe they’d scatter, and he’d end up feeling worse than ever that he’d ruined Fred’s night as well. 

_He’ll come up when the movie’s over,_ FP tells himself, resolved to wait. He retreats to his bed and stares at the ceiling, wringing his hands and running over his apology again. He’s just convinced himself that Fred couldn’t possibly stay angry at him after what he had to say when he drifts off. 

When he wakes up again it’s one in the morning. FP reaches out into Fred’s half of the bed, but feels nothing but cool, undisturbed sheets. His heart sinks as he lifts his head. Fred had never come up. 

FP opens the bedroom door and moves soundlessly to the top of the stairs. The living room is silent, but someone had left the TV on, flickering a test pattern. In the dim light, Fred’s sleeping form is perfectly visible on the sofa, bundled in a blanket. Gladys had clearly gone to her room. 

His heart sinking, FP slides slowly down to sit on the top step. His instinct is to go downstairs immediately, if not to pick Fred up and carry him to bed then to shake him awake and tell him how ridiculous this was, that he’d spend the night on the couch and Fred was free to have the bed. But his boyfriend was nothing if not stubborn, and FP knew perfectly well it would just end in another fight. 

Couldn’t he at least go cover him with a warmer blanket? FP puts his chin in his hands, probably looking for all the world like a huge toddler pouting at the top of the stairs. If he woke Fred up, Fred would have plenty to say to him. He’d just had to go into work on his day off. It was an asshole move for FP to have to even risk waking him. 

There was nothing he could do. FP slinks back to his bedroom, his face feeling tight and his throat sore. They were awful at fighting. Tomorrow he’d have to insist Fred got the bedroom. He’d sleep in the bathroom for all he deserved. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep again, but he must have done because the clock by his bedside reads _4:00_ when he’s roused by someone tapping quietly on his bedroom door. The door swings open, and Fred’s standing there, still holding the blanket around him like a cape. 

“I hate when we fight,” Fred whispers, dragging the blanket across the floor. “Can I come in?” 

Trying not to spook him by seeming too eager, FP slowly pulls the covers and sheets open. Fred climbs into bed with him, blanket and all, his shining brown eyes unreadable in the dark. 

“I’m sorry,” FP begins. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.” 

“You really, really, hurt me FP.” Fred says shortly as FP reaches out tentatively to touch him, and the sight of the sudden tears sparkling in his eyes makes FP hate himself even more. Fred’s voice wobbles. “You really hurt me, okay? Just let me sleep.” 

He turns his back to FP in the bed, scooting away from him. Their bed is made up of two twin beds pushed together, creating lots of elbow room when they’re friendly, and almost an unbearable gulf when they fight. 

“Freddie,” FP offers uselessly, and Fred’s spine stiffens. FP swallows hard, keeping his hands clasped together in an effort to keep them to himself. “I’m sorry, Fred. I know that wasn’t fair. You’ve been through a lot, and I - I was really thoughtless, and -” He racks his brains for the eloquent apology he’d thought up and finds nothing. “I know you’ve been through a lot and I didn’t take that into account.” 

Fred doesn’t soften, but he turns back around to face FP in the bed, dropping his voice to a whisper. 

“What’s mine is yours, FP,” Fred whispers to him, tracing FP’s hand with a forefinger. “Everything I have. My safety net is your safety net. Okay?” 

FP swallows hard. “Okay.” Fred’s other hand is laying the gap between them, and he picks it up and threads their fingers together, encouraged when Fred doesn’t pull away. “And I’m really, really sorry. I promise I’ll never treat you like that again. I’ll listen to you from now on. I’ll be more optimistic. I’ll understand what you’re going through. And one day, I promise, you’ll never have to worry about money. I’ll take care of everything, and you’ll have the life you deserve.” 

A small smile flickers over Fred’s face. “You’re so fucking cute when you’re groveling, you know that? Fine.” 

In the dim light from the window, Fred’s soft lips find his. FP kisses him back. He still feels like a heel, but the knot in his chest seems to loosen somewhat. If Fred was kissing him this gently, it couldn’t be that bad. Then again, they’d never been bad at kissing one another, no matter how much they were fighting. 

“I love you so much,” FP whispers, peppering Fred’s forehead with a constellation of kisses. Even a year ago, he’d never have been able to say those three words so readily, no matter how true they were. But FP had come a long way since he’d been set free at university, emotionally as well as mentally. He was sober now. He was _out_ \- mostly. He was gentle and better in tune with himself. He had just given an effortless, genuine apology - that in itself was pretty impressive when he considered who he’d been in high school. 

“I love you, you big jerk.” There’s no malice in Fred’s tone, he’s being playful. Still, it’s a reminder that FP’s not completely off the hook. Fred turns over again, scooting away a little as if to push the point home. “Goodnight,” he drawls pointedly. “My back feels like crap. We’ve got to get a new couch.” 

“I’ll take it next time,” FP speaks up loyally, but he gets only a snore in reply. Fred’s already asleep. 

* * *

When FP’s alarm goes off the next morning, he slaps the snooze button immediately. It’s not an easy feat. Despite the distance they’d attempted to leave between them the night before, Fred’s burrowed into his arms, clinging onto FP’s chest like a spider monkey. 

Moving gently and carefully, FP unwinds Fred’s hands from around him and quickly shoves a pillow into his place. Fred cuddles up to it without waking, and FP regretfully pulls himself out of bed and heads down towards the kitchen. He’d put on a pot of coffee, and then he’d make Fred his favourite breakfast. They would start over from there. 

To his surprise, Gladys is at the table when he shuffles in. She has a mug of coffee in front of her, and a paperback book propped up in front of her face. An ornate bookmark with a red tassel dangles from the spine. 

“Morning,” FP says awkwardly, stepping around her to get at the fridge. Gladys just flips a page in her book, clearly absorbed in what she’s reading. 

“Morning,” she offers, her eyes still glued to the page. FP watches her pupils dart back and forth as she follows the words. 

Yawning, he removes a carton of eggs from the fridge, grimacing at its lightness. Right. Until today, he hadn’t had the money to go grocery shopping. “I didn’t peg you for an early bird,” he comments, closing the door of the fridge. He’d expected Gladys to be the type to sleep until noon. “Did your friend stay over?” 

_Flip._ “We’re not that kind of friends.” 

FP’s mouth falls awkwardly open. He hadn’t meant to imply anything of the sort - had really only begrudgingly been making idle conversation. When he thinks it over, though, wasn’t that really what he’d been asking? The thought makes him pause. He’d never really had the chance to talk to someone else who was interested in the same sex before. 

“Um…” FP sucks in a breath through his teeth. Truth be told, Gladys intimidated him. “I didn’t mean-” 

Gladys shrugs and turns another page. FP busily opens the carton of eggs, and then the fridge, as though hoping more food might materialize there. No luck. To make his boyfriend’s romantic breakfast he had exactly two eggs, no bacon, no juice, no cheese, and no bread. So much for an omelette with bacon and toast. He might have to get creative. 

FP bites his lip. There was a convenience store about a block away, and he could at least snag some milk and bread. But if he was out when Fred came downstairs, he’d look like an asshole. Ditto if he went out and only bought the bare minimum when they needed a larger shopping trip. But he couldn’t very well go spend the morning shopping. 

“I never asked, what’s your major?" Gladys questions him, lifting her eyes momentarily from her book. 

“I’m a football player,” FP replies. 

It’s actually dodging the question - he was supposed to declare a major within the next few months, earlier if you were someone who actually had a plan for their life, which he didn’t. But most people let the subject go when they happened on that information, assuming correctly that his sports scholarship was the most interesting thing about him. 

Apparently Gladys isn’t one of them. “Can’t major in football,” she says casually, closing her paperback to look at him. FP swallows a sharp retort and opens a kitchen cabinet, scrutinizing the empty shelves as though they’re the most fascinating things he’s ever seen. 

Truth be told, he had no idea what he wanted to major in, and the thought of making such a significant life decision this year was terrifying. But he didn’t want to come across like some lazy joke either. FP was trying very hard to make something of himself at college. 

Most of his football teammates coasted by with two or three bird courses a semester, scoring incompletes or pass/fail marks in the others by virtue of a very lenient academic office that valued donations to the athletics department as much as they did grades. FP wasn’t like them. Determined to be more than a dumb jock in his lifetime, he’d chosen his courses carefully and worked very hard in them. If his high school self had seen the hours he logged at the library, he wouldn’t have recognized himself. 

The problem was that none of the classes he’d been taking felt _right_ enough to dedicate the rest of his diploma to. None of them seemed to lead him on a promising career path, either. He didn’t trust himself: what if he chose the wrong thing? What if he tried to major in something that was just too hard? What if he became a laughingstock? 

FP’s only real interest was chemistry, but he struggled so much with that textbook sometimes that he knew majoring in any kind of science would take away from his playing. He also had no interest in working in a lab for the rest of his life - he couldn’t picture spoiling Fred at a job that forced him to wear a lab coat. 

“I’m undecided,” he says, uncomfortable with how unambitious it makes him sound. Gladys raises an eyebrow, but lets it go. 

“Well, I’m meeting some friends from my study group for breakfast,” she says conversationally. “I’ll probably see you tonight.” 

“Didn’t need your life story.” FP pulls a bowl down from the cabinet, figuring that Fred rarely eats more than two scrambled eggs anyway. He knew he was being unbearably rude, but he didn’t care. Besides, he had the feeling Gladys was judging him no matter what he said or did. 

Behind him, Gladys gets up and stretches, crossing to the sink to rinse and wash her coffee mug. She deposits it upside-down in the drain tray and heads back to her room, the book tucked securely under her arm. “I put a pot of coffee on,” she tells FP as she sails past. “It’s still hot.” 

FP lifts the pot out of the coffeemaker and gives it an experimental sniff. No matter how uncomfortable she made him feel, Gladys clearly made good coffee. Maybe she was better to have around than the smoking guy after all. 

He opens the cupboard above the coffeemaker and shuffles through a few boxes, a smile cracking his face at last when he comes upon an old, crusty box of pancake mix. 

His gaze lands on the windowsill, where Fred had brought a single, overripe banana home in his lunch pail. FP peels it and dumps it into a large bowl, adding a scoop of the pancake mix and following the directions on the back of the box. 

Fred loved banana pancakes. Granted, they usually had them at the cafe on the quad, and FP had never really tried to make them himself, but how hard could it be? 

It takes awhile to coax the mushed banana into the batter with a fork. Once he’s struggled through making something that approximates batter, FP crosses the room to the screen door that connects their kitchen to a small, weedy backyard. In lieu of a vase of flowers, he pulls two yellow dandelions off of a dangerously tall weed and arranges them in a nice looking shot glass, which he places on a tray. 

He pours the batter into a pan, trying and failing to make perfectly round circles. In another bowl he scrambles the eggs, dousing them once in the pan with a liberal dusting of cayenne pepper - Fred’s favourite. FP doesn’t use maple syrup anymore: a childhood spent in his hometown had cured him of that, but Fred was fond of using cheap corn syrup. FP searches fruitlessly for a pitcher before filling a shot glass with it instead - the one Fred had bought him in high school that said TEXAS on the side. Neither of them had ever been to Texas - Fred had found in a charity shop and liked the fact that it was shaped like a boot. 

FP checks the clock as he shuffles the slightly charred pancakes onto a plate. It was 6:25. Fred’s alarm went off at 6:30. Forcing a smile on his worried face, he arranges the breakfast and flowers on the tray and carries it up the stairs. 

“Morning sleepyhead,” he whispers, bending down to kiss Fred on the cheek. Fred stirs and opens his eyes slowly, and FP notices with regret that the skin under his eyes is lined with tired, purplish bags. Fred groans sleepily and pushes FP away, his face puffy and disheveled from just waking up. 

“You need a shave.” 

FP holds out a mug to him. “Taste this.” He’d tasted some of Gladys’ coffee out of the pot, and he had to admit it was amazing. Fred sips and then raises his eyebrows. 

“You made this coffee?” 

“Gladys did.” 

“Mmm.” Fred looks down at the tray of food and laughs as FP places it carefully over his legs, pulling the blanket up beneath it. “Okay, stop it, stop it. I forgive you.” He pinches FP’s cheek lightly. “I told you you’re too cute when you’re groveling.” 

FP smiles, but the knot in his chest refuses to relax. “They’re banana pancakes,” he explains hurriedly, pointing out the misshapen lumps on the thrift-store china. “We didn’t have any bacon, but I’ll go to the store today and do a shop. And-” 

“They’re perfect,” Fred interrupts. He spears a bit of scrambled egg and sips again from the coffee, shaking his head amusedly. His voice is tired and hoarse with sleep. “You’re adorable.” 

FP watches as Fred devours his pancakes and scrambled eggs, drizzling the corn syrup over them. Sensing FP’s eyes on him, Fred swallows and gestures to the plate. “I love the big lumps of bananas. You got them just right.” 

Big lumps of banana hadn’t been FP’s intention whatsoever, but he’ll take it. Fred chews the last mouthful of breakfast and slips out of bed, setting the tray carefully aside. “I gotta get a move on. Thanks for spoiling me.” 

FP wets his lips nervously. “Fred - wait.” 

Fred pauses in the doorway, a hand on the frame, and FP pats the bed next to him, biting his lip. “I want to say sorry again. I didn’t give you enough credit for everything you’ve been through. I’m sorry for what I said.” 

Fred crosses the room and sets his hands lightly on each of FP’s shoulders. 

“I forgive you. And I’m sorry too. Just because I’ve had struggles, doesn’t diminish yours.” 

FP pushes himself to smile, and Fred returns it, kissing him lightly on the cheek and padding down the hall towards the bathroom, his work clothes wadded under his arm. But despite the easy reconciliation, FP still feels sad. 

Fred had forgiven him, they’d said all the right words. But his heart still feels heavy, like a piece is missing, or they’d left something unfinished. He sits on their bed as he listens to the shower running, the comforting noises of Fred getting ready. 

“Have a good class,” says Fred, returning to the room with damp hair to grab his hat and car keys. He doesn’t kiss FP again, just shoulders his work bag tiredly and heads toward the stairs. “Love you.” 

“Love you,” FP echoes, watching him go until he’s out of sight. He plucks a dandelion from the makeshift vase and rubs it between his forefinger and thumb, his eyes trained on the little flower. He had an 8:30 class to get ready for, but he doesn’t bother to budge from the bed. 

_You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me_ , he thinks seriously. _I_ do _love you. I swear to God, I’m going to prove it._


	2. Gladys

Okay, the room she’d found isn’t  _ perfect _ \- it’s small and cramped, and borders the kitchen, so she’s bound to be woken up one day to the clanging of pots and pans or the smell of burned breakfast - but it’s  _ hers. _ As Gladys climbs the steps of the slightly dilapidated front porch, swinging her brand new house key in one hand and the bag containing her literature homework in the other, she can’t think of anything better. 

Much as she was grateful for Penny taking her in these past few weeks, it was a relief not to have to come home to the girl. Penny’s friends were loud, obnoxious, and always around - showing up just as Gladys had settled down to read or practice with intentions of throwing a party, snorting coke, and playing the worst music Gladys had ever heard. Most of them were scary-looking, chauvinistic dudes who Penny always seemed to be fighting with - physical fights that left the kitchen in pieces, or high-pitched screaming matches over the telephone at four in the morning. Very few of them were students, most were townies from the surrounding area who Penny picked up at the local bars. 

Gladys could hold her own against scary guys, even ones high out of their minds and pissed off at her roommate. But her grades had started to suffer as a result of her living situation, and Gladys prided herself very highly on her GPA. It was high time for a change. And since she and her previous girlfriend had called it quits, this duplex was about the best she could hope for. 

She turns right in the short hallway inside the front door, and steps into her new, bare bedroom. Dropping her books in a stack on the futon where she sleeps, Gladys unzips her guitar case and affectionately settles the instrument in her lap. 

Both of her new housemates were out, so it was the perfect time to make good on her promise that her playing wouldn’t disturb them. Stroking the polished instrument with an affectionate hand, she opens a book on her small wire music stand but ignores the sheet music after a while, putting away the guitar pick and experimenting. She’s lost in the melody when she hears the front door open and close, and the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. 

The footfalls are too light for a football player - she’d only known FP a day, but she knew he crashed and lumbered everywhere - so it must be the smaller one, Fred. They’d clicked almost instantly upon meeting, but Gladys hadn’t talked to him since. She hears his footfalls pause lightly outside her door, and wonders if he’s going to ask her to stop playing. But then he starts walking again, runs some water in the kitchen for a while, and goes up the stairs to his room. A welcome change from Penny, who made everything Gladys was doing her business. Gladys smiles to herself, the last lingering uncertainties about her living situation disappearing. 

Immersing herself again in the guitar, she’s startled by a light knock at her door some ten minutes later. “Come in,” she calls, and the door swings partially open to reveal Fred leaning against the doorframe. 

“You sound awesome.” Her new roommate beams encouragingly at her. He’s clearly just out of the shower, his short hair tousled damply above his shoulders, his feet bare on the uneven wood flooring. One leg of his sweatpants is shoved up to his knee, giving him a lopsided, goofy appearance. Generosity and excitability shines out of his face: she can tell already he’s the kind of person who would be picked to lead campus tours, luring students in with his buoyant, unscuffed optimism. “I’m sorry to bug you, I just wanted to say something. You’re really good at the guitar.” 

Gladys gives him a tolerant smile. “You don’t even know what I’m doing.” 

“You’re fingerpicking the riffs from  _ Don’t Fear the Reaper,  _ aren’t you? _ ”  _ Fred replies, sliding off the doorframe and taking a few steps into the room. His eyes sweep over the guitar as he moves, and though he looks her in the eyes while he’s talking, they keep jumping back to the body of the instrument. “I’m impressed. You’ve got killer technique. And I don’t know if you’re trying to do this, but it’s so smooth, you make it sound like a love song.” 

She had been doing that, on purpose. “Do you play?” Gladys gives him a more thorough once-over. He’s handsome, no doubt about that, the bland all-American type with strong, clean features. A little skinny for her taste, though the muscles in his arms are clearly defined. Up close she can count a few freckles, and his tired brown eyes shimmer with joy and mischief. 

“I did.” Fred’s wholesome face breaks into an adorable, self-deprecating laugh, and his fingers fidget together. “I was in a band in high school.” 

“Oh yeah?” Gladys scoots over a little so that he can sit down, her hand resting gently on the glossy front of her guitar. “Me too.” 

“Birds of a feather,” says Fred, eagerly taking the spot she frees up for him. “Keep playing.” He crosses his legs on the duvet, and Gladys obediently picks up the song. Fred leans back against the headboard as she plays, shutting his eyes for so long that Gladys wonders if he’s fallen asleep. She hums lightly to accompany her playing, finishing the song with a flourish. Fred opens his eyes and applauds, acting like there’s truly nowhere in the world he’d rather be than slouched on her rickety bed listening to her practice. 

Gladys tries to hand him the guitar, curious. “You play something.” 

“Oh, I haven’t played in ages.” Fred’s words say one thing, but his face is lit up like a child on Christmas morning, his hands already reaching out for the guitar. When Gladys passes it over, he settles it in his lap so naturally that it seems to become a part of him. In his State U hoodie with cut-off sleeves, a huge smile rising on his face, he could be a poster boy for her guitar program. 

Fred caresses the strings for a moment before striking a loud chord. His eyes light up at the sound, his fingers settling lightly into place. Then he opens his mouth to sing, transforming before her eyes from an apologetically wholesome college boy to a brash and confident musician. 

_ “Born down in a dead man’s town, the first kick I took was when I hit the ground,  _

_ End up like a dog that’s been beat too much, _

_ Till you spend half your life just to cover it up, yeah,”  _

He sings like he’s drawing the air out of the rest of the room, loud and strong and full of energy. The uncertainty leaves his face, replaced by joy. He belts, but wonderfully. Gladys marvels at how it seems to unfurl something true in him: how he transforms from someone she would pass by without a second glance to someone her eyes are drawn to. 

“You were the lead singer, weren’t you?” she asks. 

“Do I look like it?” Fred keeps strumming, bobbing his head subtly to the song. The music makes him beautiful, his lined face suddenly years younger, his eyes shining with childlike bliss. He laughs, giddy, and slaps the face of the guitar as he stops. 

“Oh, please. The way you were singing just now? You love the spotlight. Don’t lie to me.” 

Fred smiles sheepishly, fingers picking at the strings again. “I was. And I bet you were the bass player.” 

He’d got it in one, but Gladys purses her lips at him as though he’d been wrong. “What makes you say that?” 

“Easily. You have that coolness factor. Drummer was my next guess.” 

“Drummer!” Gladys declares, pretending to be offended. “Do I look like a drummer?” 

“Don’t knock it! FP was our drummer.” 

Gladys jerks her head towards the door. “Mr. Gridiron was in your band?” 

“Yeah, he used to be cool. Now he’s a square.” Fred delivers the insult mildly, laughing at his own joke. “Nah, I’m kidding, he played football then too. And he was good.” Her new housemate’s eyes shine with stubborn pride. “He was recruited by three other schools, you know.” 

Gladys puts up a hand before she has to hear more. “Spare me. He told me over breakfast he’s here on scholarship. What are  _ you _ studying?” 

“Oh, I’m not a student. I’m working construction around here while FP goes to school. My dad died my last year of high school, and I have to support my family.” 

He tells her this as easily as if he’d been discussing the weather, and Gladys begins to like him. Really like him. Fred plucks out a last few chords and then hands the guitar back to her, hesitating just a moment too long with it in his arms. 

“I had to sell mine,” he explains, a reticent look on his face as she lifts it out of his hands. “I haven’t held one of those in awhile. You could probably tell by my playing.” 

“You just need practice,” Gladys replies, and then with uncharacteristic generosity: “You can come by and play on mine sometimes, if you want. Since we’re living in the same house.” 

“You mean it?” A slow, steady smile climbs over Fred’s face. “I work most of the time, anyway, but maybe once or twice… that would be nice.” 

Gladys smiles back at him, privately dumbfounded by how quickly she’d taken to him. Fred looked as clean-cut and wholesome as she was radical and dark, never mind that he was dating a prize idiot. All things combined, he was worlds away from her usual company. Still, she has the unmistakable feeling that they’d just become friends. Fred certainly seems to think so, making no move to inch away from her on the bed. He starts looking around the room as though he’d been asked to stay. 

“I like your room. Very minimal.” 

“You mean small.” Gladys had managed to crush her futon, her bookshelf, and an end table into the room, but most of her belongings were still heaped in boxes that cluttered the remaining space. “I’ve been meaning to go buy a dresser and a mirror, but I don’t know where I’m going to fit them.” 

Fred purses his lips, scrutinizing a small alcove where the wall juts into the room to compensate for the kitchen stove. He hops up from the futon and lays a hand against the peeling white paint. 

“You could easily convert that little alcove into a closet. Were you going to put a desk there?” 

“No. I always work on my bed.” 

“It’d be easy, then. All you’d need is some dowels from a hardware store. I’ve got a hand saw in my bag so we could cut them to length.” Fred stands in the small gap and points towards the ceiling. “You could put one up here, and one about here for more storage space. I think I’ve got some brackets we can use. And if there are studs in the wall, we can put up some shelves. In fact, there should be, because I put up a shelf in the kitchen last year.” 

Gladys raises an eyebrow, silently evaluating his rapid-fire assertions. “Aren’t you tired from work?” she asks. His skin is scrubbed clean from the shower, but she’d noticed the crescent-moons of dirt ground into his nails, the evidence of hard labour. 

“Exhausted.” Fred rubs his hands together. “That’s why we should go now, before it catches up to me. Wanna go to the hardware store? I need some stuff anyway. Then we can stop for food somewhere. If I know FP there’s no way he remembered to grocery shop this week.” 

Gladys thinks it over. She’d intended to get a good practice in and a head start on her homework, but she hadn’t eaten since an early lunch, and was easily tempted by food. “Burritos?” 

“Whatever you want! But I know a burrito place downtown and mmm.” Fred kisses his fingertips exaggeratedly, bursting with enthusiasm. “It cannot be beat.” His ceaseless energy ebbs somewhat, his face suddenly dropping. “Unless you’re busy.” 

“Not a chance,” says Gladys, thinking hardware and burritos might be the most appealing thing she’s heard all day as she sets her guitar aside. “I’d love to.” 

* * *

“Can you lift a little higher?” Fred asks, grunting as he struggles backward up the steps and smashes his back into the closed front door of their duplex. “Just get it up the steps and we can set it down.” 

“Why am I on the bottom?” Gladys grunts, struggling to bear the weight of the enormous daisy-patterned chair they’re carrying up to the porch. After dinner and their trip to the hardware store they’d stopped at a thrift shop to look for furniture for Gladys’ room, and had somehow both fallen in love with the oversized vintage chair and matching footstool. Gladys had been delighted to learn Fred shared her interest in thrift store junk: they had a new lamp for her room and a series of gaudy art prints sitting in the truck as well. 

Breathing heavily, Fred fumbles with his front door key to unlock the door. “FP!” he yells into the hall, hoisting the seat up again. He moves with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to carrying large loads, but his face is still red from the effort. “Can you come help us out?” 

FP appears at the mouth of the hallway as they’re backing through the front door, holding a dishtowel limply in his hands. His mouth drops open at the sight of what they’re carrying, and his face immediately hardens into a suspicious look. 

“What is this?” 

“We need a new chair, FP.” Fred declares cheerfully. “Can you get the middle? My arms are breaking.” 

“No way. This is hideous. Fred, turn around and take this out.” 

Gladys narrows her eyes at FP over the long expanse of daisy-print upholstery, who tosses the towel over his shoulder in an uncharacteristically domestic move, and folds his arms. Fred is undeterred, still chirping pleasantly away. 

“This chair is awesome, FP. Back up or help out, you’re in the way.” 

“You need your head examined if you think this is coming in my home,” FP grumbles, but some of the pressure releases as he lifts Fred’s half of the seat. 

“Let’s take it to a house vote,” Fred speaks up. “Everyone who wants this chair to stay?” 

He raises one hand in the air. Despite feeling like her arm is going to fall off, Gladys does the same. FP looks from one to the other with an expression of murderous betrayal, clenching his jaw when he sees the joke in Fred’s expression. 

“It’s hideous,” he mutters, but begins to walk backwards into the living room with it. Gladys follows him awkwardly. 

“Put it in the middle of the room,” Fred directs. 

“I’m not putting it in the middle!” 

“We should push the sofa over and put it against the wall,” Gladys directs. FP’s eyes narrow, and she can tell he hadn’t taken kindly to the suggestion that they rearrange the furniture from the way he wanted it. 

“The wall? No. We should put it where the recliner is now.” Fred, free from the burden of having to hold up half the chair, is slowly and luxuriously surveying the space, a thoughtful hand on his chin. The chair is getting heavier and heavier in Gladys’ arms. “Once we have it out of the way-” 

“It’s not going to fit,” FP speaks up. What Gladys and Fred had thought was a chair-and-a-half was easily as big as a standard loveseat, even without the matching circular ottoman. “Where’s my recliner going to go if we put this down?” 

“That thing was broken anyway,” Fred replies tactfully. “Gladys and I can put it out by the curb.” 

“Are you kidding me?” FP steps defensively in front of the sagging recliner, to his rear. “We are not getting rid of my favourite chair so you can bring some hideous monstrosity in here. I bet it smells like cat piss. Some old lady probably died on this thing.” 

“Maybe she left a lot of money hidden in it,” Fred replies. “And your recliner doesn’t recline. It’s a hunk of junk. We got it by the side of the road in the first place, remember? It’s served it’s time with us, now it’s our responsibility to put it back into the universe for someone else who needs it.” 

“Cut the hippie crap! I’m not getting rid of it!” 

“I hate to interrupt, but we have to put it somewhere,” Gladys speaks up loudly. “And I’d like to put it down now.” 

FP grunts and lowers it to the ground with her, leaving it directly in the middle of the room. “It would fit if we moved the recliner out,” Fred points out. 

“It’s not going anywhere,” FP growls, shooting a distrustful look at Gladys, as though she had orchestrated this betrayal herself. Fred sighs. 

“Fine, we’ll shove it in a corner.” He dusts off his hands as though the matter is done and settled, and turns to speak to Gladys. “All right, let’s drop that box of dowels and things in your room, and then we can get the ottoman out of the truck. FP, do you want to join us for a drink? Gladys is going to show me this jazz bar.” 

“I thought I’d make dinner for us,” FP answers, an uncertain and vulnerable look crossing his features as he gestures into the kitchen, where Gladys can see a bunch of overflowing brown paper bags on the counter and floor. 

Fred frowns, looking genuinely apologetic. “Sorry, we already got food. How ‘bout tomorrow night?” 

“No, it’s fine.” FP’s voice is even, but a sullen downturn is overtaking the sides of his mouth. “Go without me. I have homework to do.” 

Gladys can tell he’s hoping Fred will say no, forget it, but the possibility seems to sail far over Fred’s head. “Okay. Don’t worry, we won’t get too wild,” Fred declares, lacing his arm with Gladys’ as he steers her cheerfully towards the front door. “I want to see this band Gladys is telling me about. We’ll probably just have one drink.” 

The last thing Gladys sees before the front door slams shut behind them is FP’s face slowly turning pink with displeasure, the gaudy daisy-patterned chair taking up the whole room behind him. 

* * *

Three drinks later, Gladys is watching in amazement as Fred nails a perfect bulls-eye with his sixth dart in a row. He turns to her with a radiant smile, dropping into an exaggerated bow that slops neon green whiskey sour onto the toes of his converse high-tops. 

“You’ve got a good eye,” Gladys comments, her eye roving over to the stage, where the band is beginning to set up. 

Fred flexes his negligible muscles. “High School All-state baseball team captain, at your service.” 

Gladys throws a dart, which cuts through the air and embeds itself in the dartboard just below Fred’s. “I grew up in bars,” she explains, grinning at Fred’s expression of shock. She swivels off the red-upholstered stool and downs her gin and tonic, setting the empty glass down on the bar. “Do you want another drink before the music starts?” 

“Nah, I’m good. I have to work tomorrow.” Fred watches her curiously as she settles the tab, picking up another drink. “What’s the big rush? We can see the stage from here.” 

“I want to grab one of the booths,” Gladys replies cooly, though her heart is thumping with uncharacteristic nerves. “You can see much better from over there.” 

Fred shrugs and follows her obediently to a table. The Crooked Pigeon was smaller and more laid-back than most of the other bars near campus, tucked invisibly into the downtown core and opening onto the mouth of a heavily graffitied alley. It tended to attract artsy and offbeat types, a welcome respite from the freshman-crowded sports bars downtown. 

“I’m glad you asked me out.” Fred plays with a coaster on the table as he watches a few students dressed in black fiddling with the equipment onstage. “I can’t remember the last time I went out on a weeknight. I usually feel like I have to go home and crash.” 

“You must be wiped, though.” Gladys remembers FP saying something about Fred working long hours. Construction sounded heavy, especially if he was supporting his family on it. She’d left before him that morning, but it was possible that he’d been out all day. 

“I will be once I stop. If I keep going it’s okay.” Fred raises a hand to cover a yawn and suddenly chokes on air, his eyes going wide and his eyebrows shooting up. “Don’t look now, but the girl who just came onstage is a total babe.” 

Gladys whips her head around so quickly that her neck aches. She feels a blush shoot down her face from her forehead to her chest, and turns hurriedly away from the redhead in the tight black dress. She gives Fred her best evil eye, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I said don’t look!" Fred cranes his neck to look over Gladys’ shoulder, and she feels like strangling him. “Wow. She’s a knockout.” 

“Stop staring,” Gladys hisses at him from between gritted teeth.

“Do you think she’s single?” 

“Aren’t you gay?” 

“I'm bisexual,” Fred corrects her with a shy smile. “But not greedy. Just really weak for redheads.” 

“You have a boyfriend!” 

“I can look!” 

“She’s taken,” Gladys snaps. 

“By who?” Wait.” A slow grin spreads over Fred’s face. “Is this why we’re here?” 

Gladys blushes furiously and glances quickly behind her again. Mary, oblivious to their squabbling, is bending down to adjust an amplifier. “She’s in my feminist lit class,” Gladys confesses, seeing no way around it. “I have a huge crush on her.” 

“I knew it!” Fred crows, way too loudly for their close proximity to the stage. “I could tell by how you were blushing! That’s why you dragged me here, isn’t it?” 

Gladys throws a peanut at him from the bowl on the table. “Shut up! I didn’t drag you anywhere. If you didn’t want to come, you didn’t have to.” 

Fred’s is undeterred, smiling broadly across the table. “What’s her name?” 

“Mary,” Gladys replies hesitantly, turning her drink so that the ice cubes clink together. 

“Mary and Gladys. You two sound like a couple of stodgy old broads in my grandma’s retirement home.” 

“Oh, eat shit.” She’s slow on formulating a scathing rebuke about what a stupid name FP is, and that Fred is no better, something about the two of them sounding like a comedy act - but the Mary in question suddenly glances up from her crouched position, giving their table an unnecessary eyeful of her cleavage, and Gladys’ heart picks up. 

“She’s coming over here!” Fred yelps unnecessarily, widening his eyes at Gladys. “Don’t look.” 

Gladys kicks him under the table. “Don’t try to flirt with her.” 

“I won’t!” Fred is wounded. “I would never! I would never do such a thing-” 

“Hey!” Mary has a deep voice, but it’s as soft and musical as wind chimes. Her auburn hair is the exact colour of a sunset, framing her face with tousled curls. She smiles, displaying large front teeth and drawing attention to the few girlish freckles on her nose. Fred smiles back, a little too broadly for Gladys’ liking. “I thought that was you,” she says to Gladys, her hand briefly touching the back of the booth along Gladys’ shoulder. She turns to take in Fred as well. “Who’s this?” 

“Oh, this is my new roommate.” Gladys says, giving Fred a furtive evil eye. Fred smiles innocently and chews on a peanut, his eyes making a brief sweep of Mary’s performance attire. 

In class Mary dressed in off-beat, thrifty clothes that erred on the conservative side: patterned blazers and long, gauzy skirts, floral hats and old-woman brooches that made her look trendy and older than her age. Today, in a tight black dress with a small string of pearls around her throat, she looks older in a different way: glamorous and sexy in a low-effort manner. She radiated the possibility that she took no time on her appearance at all: that she could wear a potato sack and look stunning. 

“Fred Andrews,” Fred introduces himself, taking one of her hands and kissing it lightly. “It’s a pleasure.” 

To Gladys’ chagrin, Mary flushes, pleased. She nails Fred with a warning glare before Mary turns to her with a smile. 

“Well, I’m glad you got out of that other place you were living in.” In small talk between classes, Gladys had disclosed to her what it was like to live with Penny. “By the way, do you think you could bring those notes you borrowed to class next week? I need to start studying for our midterm.” 

“Of course,” answers Gladys cooly, pushing away the desire to blurt out an embarrassed apology. Gladys was usually notoriously smooth when it came to talking with women - but there was something so straightforward and innocent about Mary, something that managed to catch her off guard every time. The longer her crush went on, the worse it got. And then there was the slightly damning fact that she wasn’t even sure if Mary was gay. She offers a flirtatious, disarming smile, raising her eyebrows slightly. “Next class. Definitely.” 

Mary smiles and raps the back of the booth lightly with her knuckles as one of her bandmates calls to her from across the room. Gladys tries to guess at the exact shade of her lipstick - apricot? peach? 

“You borrowed her notes?” Fred asks as Mary waves at them and walks away, in what Gladys still considers far too loud of a voice. He laughs. “I don’t even go to college and I know that’s the oldest trick in the book.” 

“Watch it,” Gladys warns him. “I don’t want to hear anything else out of you. Let’s just listen to her set.” 

Feedback squeals from the microphone as Mary gives it an experimental tap, her guitarist strumming a few short chords. Fred leans forwards across the table, ignoring her. “Do you think we were destined to meet? I mean, we have the same taste in 1970’s easy chairs. The same taste in women, apparently. I gave up the guitar just in time for you to move in with yours. I think we’re soulmates.” 

“Oh?” Gladys glances up as Mary steps forward into the red spotlight. She sips her drink. “I thought your soulmate was at home pouting because he has to learn to live with a flowered footstool in his living room.” 

Fred laughs and shrugs. “Don’t change the subject. When are you going to ask her out?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Don’t know! You mean you haven’t already?” Fred shakes his head sadly. “I can tell you need my help.” 

“I do not need help from you,” Gladys scoffs. “Not with your taste in men.” 

“Do you even know if she’s gay?” 

“Well…” Gladys traces a finger through the condensation on her glass. “Fuck you.” 

Mary stands illuminated in the red spotlight, the dusty lights making a halo around her hair. With the rest of the lights low, the sticky grime of the local bar disappears into the darkness, making the place seem shadowy and atmospheric, rather than crowded. Fred turns to see better, and Gladys finds herself lost in Mary’s face, the way she looks expectantly out into the pre-show hush as though centering herself, her head held high. 

_ “Never know how much I love you,  _

_ Never know how much I care, _

_ When you put your arms around me I get a fever that’s hard to bear,”  _

Fred’s eyebrows shoot up as Mary starts singing, and Gladys knows why. She has a rich, trained voice, one that stands in contrast with her petite appearance. He rests his chin on his hand and just listens, a comfortable tenderness on his face that no longer makes Gladys jealous. It feels rare and suddenly pleasant to have someone to appreciate music with her, and she feels a spike of almost sisterly protectiveness when he closes his eyes sleepily against his hand. 

Mary’s band plays five songs, and then she steps forward and thanks the audience, their set giving way to a loner with an acoustic guitar and a harmonica. Fred’s eyes follow Mary as she steps down from the stage and begins to weave her way through people, exchanging smiles and congratulations with her bandmates. 

“She’s at the bar!” he yells suddenly, all calmness gone. “Go buy her a drink! Go, go, go, go!” 

He shoves Gladys out of the booth before she has any say in the matter. Whirling around to shoot him a meaningful glare, Gladys crosses the crowded room in a hurry, slipping through a crowd of older students to sidle up to where Mary is waiting. 

“You were amazing,” she says honestly when she reaches Mary’s elbow, smiling despite herself when Mary whips around to see who had spoken. 

Mary’s eyes are sparkling. “Thanks! It was really nice of you to come.” She raises a hand to the bartender, and Gladys reaches out to touch her arm. 

“What are you drinking?” 

Mary smiles teasingly. “Guess.” 

Gladys narrows her eyes as though thinking. “Vodka cran.” 

“Whiskey,” Mary corrects, raising her hand again. “Close.” 

Once again, Gladys touches her arm. “What kind? I want to get it.” 

“No, you don’t have to.” 

“I’d like to,” Gladys replies, hoping her voice isn’t as loaded with meaning as it sounds to her own ears. Mary blinks, and then smiles. She has a soft, demure way of smiling, a contrast to her confident voice and traffic-stopping black dress. Her short red hair, mussed from performing, curls softly around her face in perfect waves. 

“Anything, thanks. On the rocks.” Mary glances over at the table. “Your friend’s really cute.” 

Fuck. 

“He’s got a boyfriend,” Gladys replies brusquely, carefully analyzing Mary’s face for her reaction. Mary’s eyes widen, but her tone is more understanding than scandalized as she pronounces “oh.” 

“He’s a sweetheart, though,” Gladys acknowledges, feeling slightly guilty for throwing Fred under the bus. This conversation isn’t going the way she’d hoped for, and she racks her brain for something intelligent to say, finally landing on their shared class. The bartender delivers two glasses of whiskey with ice, and she hands one to Mary. “So what did you think of the reading from Monday?” 

“I thought it was a little dated, to be honest,” Mary answers easily, sipping from her glass. It was something else Gladys liked about her - she always had an opinion. “I understand we’re looking at literature rather than contemporary events, but it was a little disappointing to see we’re relying on old scholarship mostly done before third-wave feminism was even thought of, you know?” 

“Definitely,” Gladys agrees. “Granted, it was a pretty comprehensive study of the text. It helped me get context, at least. I don’t know if anything that detailed has been done since.” 

Mary pulls a face. “I know, but I feel like we end up asking the same basic questions - are there women in the text? Do they have agency? Why or why not? It’s not exactly going to be a groundbreaking discussion.” 

“What would you rather talk about?” Gladys asks. Up close, Mary smells like strawberries and hairspray. She steps a little closer, sliding her glass along the bar. 

“If it was up to me, we’d do a class on riot grrrl subculture and cultural resistance, and how you can compare the struggle to articulate and the unpacking of language with so much feminist literature. Even the stuff in the scholarly canon that was written way before riot grrrl was even thought of.” 

A spike of thrill runs through Gladys’ veins, and her face lights up. “Exactly! It’s such a miss that we’re acting like punk rock and literature don’t connect. I haven’t had a single class that talks about the riot grrrl movement, even though we’re supposed to look at things through a contemporary feminist lens. It’s happening now, and you can infuse it into so many areas of study.” 

“It’s relevant!” Mary replies enthusiastically. “Not just for drawing comparisons, but for how we actually look at and unpack texts. New modes of study that aren’t rooted in the patriarchy, you know?” 

A pair of blonde girls jostles them towards the corner of the bar, and Gladys pulls out a stool for Mary, who starts excitedly telling her about a group of girls in her dorm who made zines on Friday nights. Gladys returns with a story about the punk shows that got her into music back in her hometown, and soon they’re clamoring excitedly to talk over one another, Mary’s knee rooted into the soft skin of Gladys’ leg. 

“My mom’s a huge feminist,” Mary admits, when Gladys hesitates over a writer she hadn’t heard of. “She went radical in college and started feeding me feminist theory when I was in middle school.” 

“Mine too! She went here,” Gladys replies with a note of pride. “She used to organize sit-ins in the late sixties. She was this kickass butch lesbian with a motorcycle. She raised me with a bunch of other women.” 

Again the topic of sexuality has come up, and Gladys briefly holds her breath, but Mary doesn’t comment. She leans forward eagerly, a curl spilling across her eye. 

“My mom used to go to sit-ins here in the late sixties. That’s where she met my dad. Do you think they knew each other? That would be so cool.” 

“It’s a pretty small campus,” Gladys replies, shoving down the urge to tuck the wayward curl tenderly back behind Mary’s ear. She compromises by fixing Mary’s necklace for her: the clasp had swung around to the front. “I’ll bet they did.” 

“Thanks.” Mary adjusts her necklace. “How cool is that, then? Do you think we were destined to meet?” 

Gladys blinks in surprise at having the phrase leveled at her twice in one night. It sounds corny as all get out, but Mary’s eyes are glowing when Gladys suggests  _ maybe.  _ She asks some of Gladys’ favourite musicians and they begin an exciting round of naming various female vocalists and punk groups. Mary eagerly describes the Fleetwood Mac songs she wants to cover, and knows remarkably little about Joan Jett: Gladys tries to explain the value of various small punk bands that play on the fringes of the mainstream. 

“Your friend’s waving at you,” Mary speaks up suddenly, smiling over Gladys’ shoulder. Gladys, who had been pretending not to notice Fred’s overly enthusiastic thumbs-up, turns her back to his table. 

“Ignore him. He has a pathological need for attention.” 

“No, let’s go say hi.” Mary urges brightly, jumping off the stool. “We’ve left him stranded over there for ages. Does he know anything about punk rock?” 

“We’ll see,” Gladys begrudges, picking up her glass of whiskey. Fred seemed quotidian in his music tastes, but there was a spark of something reckless when he played that suggested he could still surprise her. “I think he’s a Springsteen boy.” 

Mary leads the way back over to Fred’s booth, dropping cheerfully into the cracked vinyl. Fred looks expectantly at Gladys, who’s too afraid of jinxing the night to indulge him with a subtle wink. 

“So, Fred,” Mary declares. “Human Touch and Lucky Town. Thoughts?” 

Fred’s eyes go bright and wide, and he starts jabbering away, something Gladys can’t follow about Springsteen’s latest albums. She’s getting thoroughly annoyed when she suddenly realizes how closely she and Mary are sitting on the vinyl seat, thigh pressed against thigh, and how Mary’s fingers are sitting - accidentally or otherwise - against the skin just above her knee. She glances at Mary out of the corner of her eye, but Mary seems to genuinely be listening to Fred’s excitable tirade, nodding as he argues for what he calls optimistic and authentic experimentation, talks about roadhouse-country influences and explains something lengthy about Springsteen’s first marriage. 

“Hey, Mary.” The keyboard player from her band pauses at their table. “We’re headed out now. You walking home with us?” 

“Oh, no,” Mary says, glancing at the clock over the bar and sounding truly dejected at the prospect of missing Fred’s monologue. “If that’s the time, I really have to head out. I have class early tomorrow, and I told myself I’d be in bed hours ago.” 

Fred’s face falls, and Gladys is sure hers drops as well. Mary rises from her seat undeterred, smiling at the pair of them, and thanks Gladys for her drink. 

“I’ll see you in class,” she says. “You’ll remember to bring my notes next week, right?” 

“You know what?” Fred interrupts quickly, “We live really close to here, don’t we, Gladys? Just a street or two away. We could run back and grab your notes and bring them over to your place in like, ten minutes flat. Then you wouldn’t have to go without them.” 

Mary opens her mouth to turn him down, but Fred talks over her. 

“We insist. Gladys will go get them right now.” He elbows Gladys heartily in the chest, and she kicks him under the table. 

Mary laughs. “Why not. I’m in Dickenson hall, room 44. I’m an RA.” She writes the number down on a napkin with an eyeliner pencil from her bag, a gesture Gladys finds almost painfully sexy. “I’ll be up for another half hour or so, but if I don’t answer, just slide them under the door.” 

At the door of the bar they say their goodbyes, and Fred waits until Mary and her bandmates have walked off into the dark before grabbing Gladys by the hand and yanking her down the pavement at a run. 

“What are you doing?” Gladys yells as Fred drags her along by the hand, kicking their way through puddles on the newly-rain-dampened streets. It had rained while they were in the bar, and shop signs and headlights glow in an otherworldly way on the dark, uneven pavement. A car roars down the road and sprays them both lightly with water. 

“I got you invited over to her dorm room! We are so good!” Fred punches the air and leaps into a puddle, sending a tidal wave surging over his shoes. “You two are going to fall in love tonight and you can thank me later.” 

“Are you crazy!” Gladys yells, laughing despite herself at Fred’s exuberance. 

“Yes! Hurry up!” 

They run giddy the rest of the way home, the night air against their faces. Gladys feels cheerful and buoyant in a way she hasn’t for a while. Fred tears into her bedroom on her heels and Gladys locates Mary’s handwritten notes on the first try: she’d never really read them, just studied her neatly looped handwriting with a special longing and then shoved them back into her textbook. 

“Go get her!” Fred cheers like an overenthusiastic track coach. “Hurry! Before she goes to bed!” 

“Idiot!” Gladys laughs, shoving him down onto her bed with the same sibling playfulness she had felt in the bar. “Don’t get your hopes up.” 

With Fred loudly cheering her on, she tucks the notes carefully into her bag and jogs out into the night-turned-morning, the night air cool on her face and the smell of rain in her lungs. 


	3. Hal

_**Sunday.** _

A deluge of rain pounds the windshield of Mrs. Cooper’s car, the heavy gray sky beyond giving the water a dirty cast. Traffic on the highway that led towards Riverdale State had slowed to a crawl, and cars crowded the road like shiny, wet beetles as rain lashed incessantly against the ground. The air conditioning in the car is cranked too high: Hal had felt his feet go numb at least half an hour ago. He stares out into the rain from the passenger-side window with a face devoid of emotion. 

The radio is on very low: a jazz station Hal would never have chosen. The windshield wipers whisk together, the noise and the frantic tapping of the rain a welcome distraction from his mother’s incessant talking. He focuses on the sound of the wiper blades, tuning the rest of the world out as he watches the downpour. 

Behind his seat, the back of the blue minivan is piled so high with stuff that the rearview mirror is obscured. His mother, a fearless driver, is unconcerned: since the rain started she’s been more worried about the pro-choice stickers on the back of the VW beetle that had crept in front of them, and the owner of the beetle’s habit of sharply hitting the brakes. 

Prudence taps her manicured fingers on the steering wheel, out of annoyance with the beetle, or possibly Hal’s carefully maintained silence. Hal tunes briefly back into the sound of her voice, exuberant with overstated cheer: 

“You’re going to have such a _wonderful_ time. Your father and I loved this school. There will be _so_ much for you to do, we’ll have to find the newspaper office and get you set up with an interview, first thing. Remember how much you enjoyed working on the Blue and Gold? I know your heart was never in this TV station nonsense.”

Hal can’t summon the effort necessary to argue for the merits of his old job in Boston, and only closes his eyes. Prudence flicks her hand slightly, as though to wave away an argument. 

“Broadcast journalism is all well and good, but there’s a time and a place!” This last is delivered with an air of triumphant conclusion, as though winning an argument in a debate match. “And I know your heart was always with the written word. Your father was the same way. Oh, and he’ll be so happy if he hears you decide to pledge Delta Tau. That fraternity was his life, he simply adored it.” 

“Mm.” Hal manages an unimpressed grunt, put off by his mother’s blatant joy. At first he’d thought her cheeriness was overcorrecting, but he was beginning to suspect she really was this happy to be driving him to this new school, three hundred miles from his old one. After all, the journalism program at Riverdale State had been one of her first choices for him. The move would put her only son exactly where Prudence liked him: securely under her thumb and a comforting hour-and-a-half drive from home. 

“You did promise him you’d think about pledging, remember,” Prudence beams. “They’ll be so proud to have you. And just think, you’ll have a ready-made set of friends right away. I’ve always thought you needed more suitable male friends, honey. And think of all the girls you'll meet on campus -” 

Hal winces as though being stabbed. The remark is delivered casually, with his mother’s trademark offhanded precision, but it slices through him like an ice pick into a brain. Prudence frowns, severely unimpressed with his discomfort. 

“I don’t want any more of your moping about. Remember, your father and I were a rare case, a rare case. Nowadays it’s very rare that first love lasts until marriage. Why, University is a very suitable place to meet someone. Incredibly suitable. I want you to promise me -” 

_Thud-thud._ Hal tunes into the wiper blades again, staring at them with an intensity that suggests he’s trying to melt the glass. He’s not sure if the sound he hears is the rushing water outside, or his own blood beating in his temples. There’s an awful headache beginning to throb behind his right eye, and his mother’s aggravating voice is only making it worse. 

Hal had _had_ a girl. Or, at least, until the ugliest breakup in the history of breakups had made it impossible to stay on the same campus with her. It seemed that nowhere in Boston was free from some memory of Alice Smith, and their lives there had been so entwined - all the same friends, twin reporting jobs at the campus TV station, to say nothing of their shared apartment and English classes, that it was impossible to go about his life without running into her. Every time he saw her, Hal felt every organ in his body being squeezed with catastrophic regret. But the few times he had asked her if they could try again, Alice had turned him down, flat and expressionless. 

It was over. 

It would be naive to say it had nothing to do with the baby. Everything after their senior year had pulsed with the undercurrent of their baby - it was the thick, dark beating heart of a tragedy that ran under everything they did. But still, Boston was supposed to be their starting over, a chance to make new lives together. A beginning. 

He could still remember the day they’d turned up for their first day of after-school work, Alice as sunny as the sky was gray now, her blonde hair loose and long as she pranced spunkily across the news station in the blue heels he’d bought her as a birthday gift. They’d both started as interns but climbed quickly into more involved roles: Hal proving himself as a writer and Alice becoming fascinated by onscreen reporting. The few stories they’d worked on together had been nothing short of dynamite, and seeing his girlfriend on the screen describing the details of their story flooded Hal with a feeling of pride and hope unlike any other. 

After they’d broken up, she’d been on TV all the time: speaking with burning blue eyes in the dorm common spaces, the snackroom lines, the deli on the corner where they liked to get pastrami sandwiches. Even when he’d taken a leave from the station, avoiding work and leaving his things growing dust on his desk, too afraid of running into her to retrieve them, she always found him somehow. He rewound old tapes of interviews in guilty midnight hours, got yelled at in the cafeteria when some minor glimpse of her face trapped him in front of the case of chocolate pudding. She’d moved into a friend’s apartment: he never saw her apart from their classes. But still, televised, she was everywhere. 

On a whim back in April, after a catastrophic fight that had made their tiff after homecoming look like friendly banter, Hal had sent in an application to the prestigious journalism program at Riverdale State. He’d done it just to feel as though he had some semblance of control over the situation, never expecting that his request to transfer would actually be accepted. RSU’s exclusive journalism program was very highly regarded, providing at least one Pulitzer winner and offering up at least two dozen more journalists to high-profile careers. When the acceptance came in, he’d spent the better part of two months hiding it under his pillow, allowing his parents and friends to believe he’d been rejected. 

It would have been foolish of him not to go, especially when living in their Boston apartment and wandering their shared campus had been unbearable. Still, depressed and reluctant, he’d let the deadline lapse. But by September the situation on campus was so dire that when they’d sent a follow-up offer after another student had dropped out, he’d written back _yes._ It was rare for the program to make such an exception - the universe was clearly trying to tell him something. It was time to at least make a gesture of moving on. 

His mother had been overjoyed when he’d told her the news. He’d held the phone in their empty kitchen, staring at the kitchenware he’d picked out with Alice at the dollar store, a year ago that felt like a lifetime. The apartment was rented in his parents' name - they’d co-signed the lease. He’d given Alice a day to collect her things and made himself scarce: the place was all but empty when he came home. He’d gone to Riverdale and moped in his childhood room for two weeks, tuning out his parents’ praises for his _sensible decision_ , before his mother, in her typical, ebullient fashion had begun packing up his things for his new school. 

“Honestly, puppy,” continues Prudence now, resurrecting a childhood nickname that makes Hal squirm in his seat, “this will be a fresh start for you! You should be overjoyed. This is a broad new chance with - fresh, _fresh_ new horizons.” She reaches for his hand and squeezes it reassuringly, a gesture that manages to be anything but. 

Hal stares at a blue and white sticker on the rear of the beetle. (keep your theology off my biology!) It was obvious, then - she thought the last year and a half of his life had been a bad mistake, something to be smoothed over and recovered from, something she was relieved to have over and done with. Something akin to sending your child to rehab - an unpleasant pitfall before the rest of their life could start. 

Prudence had never liked Alice, and on the day Hal had announced he was taking a scholarship to Boston to move in with her, Prudence’s lips had pursed so hard in a line that they’d momentarily disappeared into her face. It was a slap in both his parents' faces, taking off to be miles from home with a girl they so visibly disapproved of. But for this reason, it had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. He could remember how joyful he’d felt at this time last year, sure that the worst was behind them and that he was free. The air had tasted better on the drive up to Boston than any air he’d ever tasted in his life. 

A purple sticker below the blue one: _against abortion? don’t have one._ His mother turns on her blinker and merges into a faster-moving lane, abandoning the beetle in the rain.

There’s no _I told you_ so in his mother’s tone, but a nurturing sense of empathy and concern that was somehow worse. Prudence had always insisted she knew what was best for her son, and disturbingly, she’d been proven right. The thought was so sour in his mouth that Hal feels nauseous as they take the exit towards campus. 

“I just wish you’d been able to have your own room. But signing up so late, we had to take what we could get.” Prudence taps her fingers unhappily. RSU had a policy that first year students stayed in the dormitories, and since Hal was entering a specialized program, he was essentially in his first year. His mother had been beset with frustration that Hal’s late entry meant there was no way for her to swing the housing lottery in his favour, but she quickly smiles again, smoothing over her distaste. “Well, if you pledge Delta Tau, I know they’ll set you up in that beautiful house. I remember when your father…” 

Hal tunes out her reminiscing, disinterested in his father’s fraternity glory days. He’s heard all of this a thousand times in his parents’ quest to warm him to the idea of transferring to State: enthusiastic stories about how delightfully wonderful his parents’ undergraduate years had been, dozens of reassurances about how much fun he would have at their alma mater. To hear them put it, the opportunities for him at this point forth were immeasurable. 

He knew they were both afraid of the listless depression they’d observed in him since his senior year, his father fleeing at the faintest sign of emotion in his youngest child and his mother doing her most to keep everything smoothed over. They fluttered around him in rhythms of avoidance and smothering like buzzing horseflies on a camping trip. This had the consequence of making Hal feel more solitary and withdrawn than ever. 

The air conditioning is getting colder. The rain thins out as his mother drives them towards campus, but what little daylight there is is being choked by a dark cloud directly above them, so that the atmosphere of the car feels dazed and unreal. Prudence mutters under her breath about the hard-to-read street signs as Hal stares listlessly at the campus map she’d opened over his lap. He has his room assignment scribbled in his mother’s spiky hand on the margin - Baldwin Hall, Room 413. An unlucky number. 

“Well, at least there’s no move-in day lines!” Prudence had been beside herself when Hal had initially refused her offer to drive up to Boston with him and settle them in, taking such severe offense that they had eventually let her come for last year’s move-in-day, four days after they’d actually moved. Once she’d left, he and Alice had rearranged everything she’d touched. “It shouldn’t take long to settle you in. And look, the rain is stopping.” 

Hal says nothing. His mother snatches the map off of his lap, consults it at the wheel, and turns the van down towards a winding road to the water. 

Hal’s dormitory is an impersonal, glass-covered building: one of the newer ones that stood out sharply from the ivy-and-vine grandeur of the rest of the campus. In tiring trips back and forth to the car, parked in a fire lane with its hazards on, they unload the cramped contents of the backseat into the elevator. Prudence manages to rope in two burly guys who had been standing around by the bulletin board, citing her arthritis - both of them give Hal shifty, unpleasant looks the whole while that suggests they’re not likely to be the suitable male friends his mother had hung so much hope on. Finally the car is unloaded, and Hal allows his mother to unroll his bedspread, vacuum the carpet, and hang his clothes in half of the closet. His roommate is nowhere to be found: despite the fact that classes have been in session for over a month, the matching twin bed and desk are empty. 

“Well, maybe you get a room to yourself after all,” his mother suggests, cheered by the prospect. She pats down a framed family photo that she had hung into place using adhesive velcro strips, directly over Hal’s new desk. “Let’s go find somewhere to eat, I need a tea.” 

In the sour-smelling student hall (“oh, this brings back so many memories, Hal, your father and I-”) they sit squashed at a table by the elevators, Prudence sipping black tea with skim milk in between words and Hal picking listlessly at a salad. For the rest of the morning, his mother flutters contentedly about the campus with him, decorating his room and insisting he pose for photos for his father outside the ivy-covered student union. 

He turns down her offer to drive him to a nearby IKEA, ignoring her abrupt concern about adequate under-bed storage. After she’s marched him into the registrar’s office to receive his student ID and penned him a first day to-do list on an agenda bought from the campus shop, Prudence finally begins to look hesitantly at her watch. 

“I suppose it’s about time to be getting back, but I can spend a little longer if you’d like.” A slice of sun from the window falls upon her face and his mother looks suddenly old, and worried. She smiles, erasing the shadow from all but her eyes, which stay sad. She pats his cheek. “We’re proud of you, Hal. So, so proud.” 

She’d handed him a cheque from his father - _a gift,_ she’d said, _he wanted you to have this -_ and Hal holds it more tightly than necessary, grounding himself to the room like an anchor. His mother smiles quickly and draws him into a tight hug, one of the rib-crackers that his older sister Gertrude always bolted and ducked from. Hal finds himself hugging back, his hands numb like they were still being brutalized by the A/C in the car. When Prudence finally releases him the all-business look is back in her eyes. 

“Well.” She straightens the few items unpacked on his desk instinctively and glances around the tidy room. “You’ll have to call us and tell us how your first day goes tomorrow. I’m very excited for you, Hal. This is a brand new opportunity for you, a new chapter.” 

Hal walks her down to the car. His throat gets tight when he sees the blue minivan disappearing through the tree-lined lane out to the highway, but he doesn’t cry. 

He’s been too numb to cry for a long time. 

* * *

Hal didn’t have many friends from high school who had stayed in town, but he knew FP was at State - he’d even been pictured on one of the endless brochures his mother had cultivated that summer, a hotshot new freshman when the picture was taken, and now a sophomore quarterback slated as _one to watch._ His turnaround from rough-edged high school burnout to campus hero had even managed to impress Prudence, who had said brightly earlier in the month that it was nice to see _that Jones boy_ making something of himself. The horrified disdain that both Lewis and Prudence had had for FP’s family situation in high school didn’t seem to factor in. 

Hal and FP had never been particularly close, but the sudden loneliness that doused Hal like cold water made him long to see someone familiar. Fred, Prudence had informed him, was living somewhere near campus and sending money home to his mother, though he wasn’t enrolled in school. He was therefore impossible to find in either the campus telephone directory or the local phone book, but FP was easy - a bold name and number in the former under _Department of Athletics._

The phone rings itself out when he tries to call. Hal replaces the receiver and curls up on his bed, staring moodily at the wall until he gets bored of scowling.

It’s past dinner, already dark outside because of the storm. The dorm room smells all wrong - a sharp, classroom scent like school glue. There are many things he could be doing - eating, for one, double-checking his schedule, introducing himself to his professors, finding his classes for tomorrow. He hadn’t lied to his mother when he’d promised to make an effort - he did want this move to work out for him. He did want to be happy here, emerge from this program with job prospects. 

But he wanted Alice more. 

“I miss you,” he whispers, opening the drawer of his nightstand and prying up the false bottom - one of the few places he knew his mother wouldn’t look. The framed photo is tucked face-down, a portrait of Alice as he remembered her: her eyes glowing with some long-ago joke he’d forgotten about. Hal lifts the edge of the light silver frame and then slams it back down without looking. No. There was no point in torturing himself. Wallowing in his misery, sure. But he had to try. He couldn’t rip open the scab every time it was beginning to heal. 

A lump in his throat, already regretting it, he replaces the false bottom of the drawer. He didn’t need to look at the photo anyway, he’d seen it so many times: Alice in the blue shirt that matched her eyes, her curly hair windswept, her teeth bared in pleasure. She rarely smiled with her mouth open in photos, and he thought it was rare and beautiful when he got to see her teeth. 

Hal stands and walks to the window, staring out moodily towards the trees across the street. It’s dark enough that he can see his face reflected back at him, but he concentrates obstinately on looking past the glass, out into the gloom. It’s a decent view from the fourth floor: he can see the lake and the pier in the distance. 

“Oh, how disgusting.” 

Hal turns, startled by another voice. A young man of about his age is standing in the doorway, wearing what seems to be a long black cape. His dark hair is perfectly styled, shining with product, a look that gives him the appearance of a very polished vampire. 

The boy scrutinizes Hal’s half of the room thoughtfully for a moment before snapping his fingers. “Take this down, please.” 

“Excuse me?” Hal answers, jolted back into reality by the strange apparition. He blinks and rubs his eyes, but the stranger doesn’t vanish. 

“Yes, get rid of all of…… this,” The brunet answers, looking around Hal’s half of the room with disdain and fluttering his fingers at the decor. “I’m thinking white and black, a contemporary New York home style.” He sets one of the considerable suitcases by his feet on the bed and begins to unzip it. 

“Excuse me?” Hal repeats. 

“No, you’re right, it can stay up for tonight. I’ll deal with it later.” The brunet turns to face him, his face impassive. “I’ll need new towels, and then you can go. I’d like to be woken up at eight am sharp tomorrow. Here.” He reaches somewhere into the folds of his cape and emerges with a fifty-dollar bill, which he thrusts at Hal. “Enjoy your night off.” 

“I….” Hal is flabbergasted, staring at the money without making a move to take it. “I’m not the maid.” 

The brunet blinks incredulously at him before looking around, as though a staff of twenty might be lurking somewhere within their meager closet space. “Well, then, where is the maid?” 

A weariness settles into Hal’s soul as he realizes the other boy isn’t joking. “Well, if this is your room assignment, I’m your roommate.” 

“Oh, no, no, no.” The boy laughs airily and turns back to his suitcase. His teeth are very white and even, thankfully free of sharp points. “No. That was just a joke.” 

“A joke?” 

“Yes, my father was just joking about my having a roommate.” A smile of recognition finally creases his features, a genial warmth that catches Hal off guard. “So you can go now. I don’t know who put you up to this, Murray or Eleanor or somebody, but it was very funny.” 

“I’m not joking,” Hal answers. _I wish I was._

“No, no, no no,” The boy shakes his head, his expression becoming more disturbed with every pronouncement of denial. “There’s been a mistake. I don’t think this is my room.” The brunet rezips his suitcase and sets it back on the floor, abruptly grabbing both handles and dragging the huge luggage behind him out the door. It slams shut after him, and Hal can hear his footfalls if he strains, very muffled through the heavy wood. After a long pregnant pause, the door creaks open again and the same boy’s face peers in. 

“Room four-thirteen?” Hal reads helpfully, consulting his map. 

A thundercloud not unlike the ones outside passes over the stranger’s face. “It’s not possible,” he seethes, dragging both heavy suitcases back through the door and throwing one furiously on the bed. The boy covers his face with one hand and reaches with the other to shake Hal’s hand. “Lodge. Hiram Lodge. Please forgive me, I’m not used to…” 

“Harold Cooper,” says Hal, shaking his hand firmly. He’s dedicated himself to the strange farce unfolding in front of him, for better or for worse. At least it got his mind off Alice. Hiram peeks out from under his hand. 

“Are you perhaps related to the Yorkshire Coopers?” 

“Is this a joke?” Hal asks. He’d never seen anything like this boy outside of daytime television, and was wholly unsure what to make of him. 

Hiram looks ruffled. “That’s exactly what I was asking you.” 

For an awkward moment they survey each other, Hal noting strangely how soft and perfect his skin and lips were, as though he followed some kind of moisturizing routine that would make Prudence Cooper proud. Hiram was slightly shorter than average, though he held himself with an aristocracy that made him seem very tall. The polished, buckled leather boots he was wearing added to the effect. Hal does a quick inventory of his own outfit: faded tennis shoes, khaki pants, and a saggy sweatshirt. Hardly designer material. 

“So where are you from?” Hiram asks, throwing himself onto the bed alongside the suitcase. He grimaces as he lands. “Ugh! This bedding. Are you absolutely certain you haven’t seen a maid?” 

“No. And I’m from Riverdale.” Hal sits nervously on the edge of his own bed, his hands on either side of his legs. Hiram gives him a sour look, as though affronted by the name or Hal’s comportment, he wasn’t sure which. “I grew up in the suburbs, but I did my first year of school in Boston. Now I’m back here.” 

“Boston!” Hiram’s expression rearranges into one of interest. “Fascinating place. Loads of history. Let me guess. The Harvard admissions scandal. Your family dragged you back here until all the publicity dies down.” 

“No!” replies Hal, shocked. “I didn’t go to Harvard.” 

“MIT?” Hiram raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you have the brains for it.” 

It suddenly seems too tiring to explain that he’d gone to a smaller school. “How about you?” Hal asks, sensing that Hiram was more interested in himself anyway. He briefly wishes he was alone in the room again, pouting and listening to FP’s dial tone in his ear. “Are you from around here?” 

“Well, _technically_ ,” Hiram replies slowly, drawing out the word with an exaggerated pursing of the lips that told Hal exactly what he thought of that, “my family founded Riverdale.” 

“What?” 

“Indeed.” Hiram’s blank expression wouldn’t have changed if he’d told Hal that his family had invented watching paint dry. “For whatever reason, my great-great-great-grandfather decided bankrolling a small mining town in the middle of nowhere would be a riveting enterprise. I’ve no idea why we still have a hand in it. All the Lodges with sense have been New Yorkers. As for me, I’ve lived all over: New York, London, Spain, Uruguay, Italy, Alaska, Connecticut, Paris for a couple months, Ukraine-” 

“Wow,” says Hal, cutting him off, because it seemed that Hiram could go listing place names into infinity. 

“Indeed.” Hiram runs a hand through his hair. “My Spanish is the best, but I can get away with a passable Ukrainian. Speak to the cab drivers, you know. My Norwegian is quite good too.” He sighs. “I’d still be bar hopping in Oslo if my father hadn’t found out he was paying for classes at Oxford that no one was attending.” 

Hal just stares at him in reply. Hiram looks around at the dorm: the white-washed walls, the single window, the neatly taped posters above Hal’s bed. “I’m sure he doesn’t know they’re keeping me in these apocalyptic conditions. Frankly, I think he’ll owe me an apology for this. His intention was to punish me, not to send me to some sort of prison camp.” 

“You’re so pretentious,” says Hal, and immediately turns crimson. It had been a thought, nothing more - he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, and had only realized he was speaking upon hearing his own voice in the room. But Hiram doesn’t seem offended in the slightest. 

“Thank you,” he replies genially, folding his arms below his head and leaning back against the wall. “Well, since I’m here, I might as well make the best of it. If indeed Father is serious about putting me through this drudgery, I took the precaution of looking into the fraternities on campus. It seems the only one remotely worth pledging is Delta Tau, though if you’ve heard of any-” 

“Delta Tau?” Hal asks, startled by the words. 

“Have you heard of them? Very traditional, very elite. They started as a secret society, you know, carrying over traditions started from the Bullingdon Club and the Ivy Club at Princeton.” A slight flicker of interest replaces the cool detachment in Hiram’s eyes, an enjoyment at the prospect of rushing that was completely alien to Hal. The information was more than Hal had known, though it niggles a faint memory from years ago, like something his father might have told him once that had gone in one ear and out the other. 

“My father would love you," Hal says honestly. "That was his fraternity." 

Hiram raises an eyebrow. “Lewis Cooper is your father?” 

“How did you know?” 

“Well, you’re not of the Yorkshire Coopers, are you? I did my research on Delta Tau. L.C. was a huge figure in the frat scene back in the day.” Before Hal can get over the shock of hearing his father referred to by his initials, Hiram rolls suddenly off the bed, landing on the soles of his polished boots. He beams and holds his hand out for another shake. “We’ll rush together. Assuming my father hasn’t liberated me from this tedious living arrangement, that is.” 

“Oh. Um, I haven’t decided-” 

“Then it’s settled,” Hiram answers, flashing a charismatic, appealing smile that must have fared him well while traveling. “Let’s get out of this place, it’s depressing me. I know a quaint little hotel not far from here, left over from great-great-great grandfather’s saloon days. We can get a nip to eat and pick up some older women.” 

Hal balks. “I’m good.” 

“Oh, we can forget the women if you’re a prude. Come on. I refuse to be drinking in a hotel bar alone in this terrible place.” 

“I actually have plans,” Hal lies, thinking disinterestedly of the half-hearted attempt he was going to make to reach FP again in a few hours. Hiram was a lot, and Hal wasn’t sure he was up to the kind of night on the town that his new roommate was used to. For a moment a flicker of disappointment crosses Hiram’s face, but it disappears so quickly that Hal assumes he’d imagined it. 

“Oh. Very well.” Hiram removes a fancy scarf from the nearest bag and winds it casually around his throat. “I’ll have to make my own excitement. I won’t be back until late, I don’t suppose they left you a key? Ah.” He snatches one of the gold keys that had been supplied to Hal by the admissions office, jingling it merrily from his finger. “Pleasure to meet you, Harold. _Adi_ _ó_ _s._ ” 

A swirl of cape precedes his leaving, the suitcases open and half-unpacked on the bed. Hal glances over at one of them, observing a muddle of silky clothing that looked exorbitantly expensive, even at this distance. Hal rolls over with a groan, already vowing that he wouldn’t tell his mother a single detail of this conversation. He’d say his new roommate was a _very nice boy_ , and leave it at that. 

At nine-thirty he tries FP’s number again. This time someone picks up.


	4. Hal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i was 2 paragraphs in when i realized the drinking age in the states is 21 and rather than readjust i will simply ask you to go with it thanks...its riverdale

The campus sports bar is packed with students, even on a Sunday night. Hal shows his driver's license and his brand new student ID at the door, squeezing around a rowdy group of cheering eighteen year olds that are evidently celebrating someone’s birthday. A football game blares from a wall of oversized screens, every other inch of wall space taken up by a jumble of various pennants and years upon years of memorabilia.

The sports bar he’d frequented in Boston had been more modern - sleek and impersonal, with officially sponsored team pennants and neon gleaming from below the bar like a spaceship. This has a crowded, familiar feel, the wood-paneled walls and dusty photo frames making it seem more like someone’s den. This, Hal knows, is the site of Lewis and Prudence’s  _ third  _ date - he’d heard the stories enough times that the significance registers almost automatically. He looks around, wondering if FP’s there yet. 

Hal couldn’t remember the last time they’d talked - it must have been graduation, though in all the fuss and the pictures and the depression that had shrouded his thoughts since that fateful homecoming, he couldn’t remember them exchanging so much as an awkward smile. Separated as they were by a good chunk of the alphabet, he could barely recall FP being handed a diploma - his thoughts had turned only briefly to him at the beginning when Fred had crossed the stage, his name ringing out lonely and clear without the accompanying  _ graduated with honours _ or  _ will be attending  _ that had been announced for nearly everyone else. Hal had felt hugely guilty for noting the upcoming irony: that Fred, Riverdale’s beloved, had barely scraped a diploma, while FP was heading to college with a full ride. 

FP would know where Fred was, assuming they hadn’t had some catastrophic falling-out in the years since. This seemed an unpleasant but possible outcome: their friendship in high school had always seemed potentially too intense to last, though one was unthinkable without the other: the peanut-butter-and-jelly, toast-and-eggs companionship that became a normal fixture in the fabric of their teenage years. Hal hopes for his own sake that they’re still friends: talking to Fred would alleviate some of the guilt that he felt for leaving him for Boston without a backward glance. 

“Coop!”

The voice bellows from somewhere off to his right. Hal turns quickly, banging into the birthday crowd, who had been squeezing by him to get at a table. They flow around disdainfully on either side of him, as though he’s a log dropped in the middle of a stream. Finally his eyes settle on FP, stretched out in a corner booth with his arms draped out to each side. 

Hal approaches him, slightly unsure if he’s found the right person. The FP waiting for him in the booth, long legs sticking out under the table like it’s the most natural pose in the world, tripping hazard be damned, looks nothing like the delinquent eighteen year old Hal had left in Riverdale last year. In dark-wash jeans and an artfully faded gray t-shirt, his face open and smiling, he looked filled-out and handsome, a ruggedness about his unshaved cheeks that kept him from appearing too clean-cut. His bare arms are thick and toned with muscle, the broad shoulders and what Hal could see of his chest taking on the built look of a real football player. He had lost the gaunt, haunted look of his teenage years: the greasy hair and shifty eyes, regrettably dour disposition and rough-edged, chain smoking veneer. Replacing this is a handsome twenty-year old with a five-o-clock shadow, thriving and healthy. 

Forget comparing him to Fred - he was comparing FP to himself as he walked, wondering what other rude surprises were in store as he faced up to the catastrophic failure that had been his first year away from home. A dishonorable sourness overtakes him that he knows he’s inherited from his mother -  _ he _ was the one with promise,  _ he, _ Hal, was the perfect honour roll student and the newspaper editor,  _ he _ was the one with a future. FP had been a bad boy, a slacker, headed for trouble. And yet now their roles were reversed. 

“Good to see you, man.” They do an awkward fist-bumping, hand-clasping maneuver that subs in for a male hug, Hal dropping into the seat below FP’s outstretched arm without taking his eyes off his friend’s face. A half-empty glass of cola sits on the table between them with a straw. 

The awkwardness is all on Hal’s part - FP seems relaxed and easy, taking everything in stride. This was FP at his best, somehow, FP as Fred had talked about him, glowing, on the day in ninth grade when he’d tried to unsuccessfully make all three of them friends:  _ isn’t he great? Isn’t he cool? Isn’t he something else?  _

“Wow,” says Hal awkwardly, conscious of the same newfound bluntness that had made him insult his new roommate to his face. “You look good.” 

FP smiles, almost bashful, and looks around for a waiter. “Do you want a beer? I should tell you - I, uh, I don’t drink anymore. Feel free, though, I don’t mind.” 

“No kidding.” This news strikes Hal as momentous - he can remember all too well the days FP came reeking of beer to class, the rumours he hid vodka in water bottles and would swig back mouthwash in a pinch, cold syrup, whatever he could get his hands on. Prudence had certainly believed them. “For how long?” 

“It’ll be a year next month.” Proudly, almost fondly, like a parent showing off baby photos, FP opens his wallet and hands him the chip: dark green, about the diameter of a poker chip, with raised lettering spelling out 11. 

Hal traces the number with the pad of his thumb. “Wow.” 

“It was Halloween last year. I got shitfaced and woke up two days later in the hospital.” FP scratches the back of his head - his hair is no longer lank and greasy, but neatly kept, loosening into soft-looking curls. “I decided I’d had enough of that for a lifetime.” 

There’s so much earnestness in his face that Hal feels overwhelmed. “That’s amazing,” he says, handing it back to FP, who slides it back into the folds of his wallet. “Good for you.” 

He makes up his mind there and then to order a soda as a sign of solidarity, but caves when the waitress comes around - it’s been a long day - and asks for a beer. FP doesn’t flinch, just politely asks for a refill on his coke. Hal notices that girls are turning to look at them all around the bar, and he’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with his grubby sweatshirt. 

“Football, huh?” he says, watching a giggling trio of girls ogle FP out of the corner of his eyes. “How’s that going?” 

“Pretty good.” FP relaxes into his spread-armed pose, and Hal’s relieved when they launch into a refreshingly brainless discussion of the college team’s season, his companion filling in details he hadn’t known about the other schools. FP’s startlingly easy to talk to: he makes him laugh with a handful of stories about locker rooms and rival teams, and soon Hal feels like they might be more compatible as adults than they had ever been as kids. Eventually, though, FP runs out of stories. He swivels the straw in his cola around to his mouth and takes a sip, scrutinizing Hal’s appearance. 

“So you’re back.” Hal had told him only the bare minimum over the phone: that he was newly enrolled at Riverdale State and didn’t know anyone in town. “Boston was that bad, huh?” 

Haltingly, Hal told him a brief version of the story: a year of classes, his job at the TV station, the breakup with Alice, his application for the journalism program that had come through at the nick of time. 

“So I just figured I’d give her some time to cool off, and this program is better for me anyway. It was my second choice and everything.” 

“Geez.” FP laughs. “I don’t blame you. If Alice was pissed at me, I wouldn’t stay in the same state as her either.” 

“The program’s really prestigious,” Hal hears himself saying, sounding for all the world like his mother when she was trying to smooth over something unpleasant. “It was really my best bet at getting back into newspaper reporting, which was something I wanted to do all along. The TV station wasn’t the right fit for me.” 

If this sounds like the blatant lie it is, FP is courteous enough not to mention it. “I’ve always been jealous of you,” he admits lightly. “Knowing what you wanted to do your whole life. I can only play football for so long.” He rubs his hands together, and Hal sits in awe of him: not only that FP was showing a degree of self-awareness but that he’d deferred to Hal as anything close to a success story. 

FP tells him about his classes, the grueling practice schedule, the unpleasant task of having to declare a major this year when he hadn’t made his mind up yet. He hears the full story behind what he’d only surmised from his mother’s gossip: after FP Senior had thrown his son out -  _ “miserable old bastard,”  _ FP says lightly, striking through years of abuse and saying no more about it - FP had won a football scholarship and moved from Fred’s house to the campus.

“What about Fred?” Hal finally asks. “My mom said he was living out here, but not going to school, is that right? She was really spotty with the details. I mean, I thought she’d know more considering she and Bunny are usually like-” He holds his crossed fingers up to indicate closeness. “Do you talk to him?” 

“Oh.” FP’s silent for a soft minute, looking Hal square in the face. Then he replies: “We’re living together.” 

A flush of unexpected pleasure glows in Hal’s chest, an oddly proprietary relief that one constant from his high school years hadn’t dissolved into instability. “That’s great. You two are still friends, then?” 

FP’s silent, playing with the largest of the plain silver rings he wears on his right hand. Then he clears his throat and looks Hal deeply in the eyes again. 

“Fred and I  _ are _ together.” 

“Right,” says Hal automatically, nodding even though he hadn’t gained any more understanding than the first time around. “Right, you’re living together.” FP keeps staring at him, and understanding dawns on Hal in a rush. “Oh.” 

FP’s suddenly sitting back, uncrossing his long legs like he might have to bolt. 

“Hey, FP, that’s -” Hal swallows his surprise - a part of him wasn’t, really, but he knew he was blushing all the same. He tries to keep his face neutral and fails, clearing his dry throat. “I think that’s great. Thank you for telling me.” 

FP looks at him for a moment, as though analyzing his response. Then he relaxes nonchalantly back into the booth, arms splayed again. Hal glances towards the ring on FP’s right ring finger, an odd possibility occurring to him. 

“That ring isn’t…” 

“No, no. Football.” FP flexes his fingers, turns his hand to the light so Hal can see the lettering. “And these are just, they’re whatever. Class ring, and um, just a band.” He plays nervously with the metal on his fingers. “I’ve just been wearing them.” 

“Right, because you can’t -” Hal suddenly stops, aware of having put his foot in his mouth. “No, what I meant was - um -” In a burst of panic he changes the topic. “Uh...What’s Fred doing for work?” 

“Construction, still.” FP doesn’t look too offended at his clumsy switch, but Prudence’s voice bursts sharply in his ear:  _ Harold, please. Some manners. _ Hal looks down at his hands and sees himself tearing the label on the beer into shreds. “Same company as before, just up here. He’s good at it. Manual labour for now, but he’s talking about taking a business course, maybe getting involved on the business end of things one day. It’s hard work, long days, you know.” 

“That’s great. How long?” 

“Twelve hours, seven to seven.” 

“Wow.” The self loathing rears up again, a reminder of his own slack, unmotivated lackadaisical existence. He knows he’s being purposefully hard on himself and doesn’t care. 

FP smiles oddly, as though reading his unhappiness, though his eyes slide over Hal’s face to land on the hockey game playing out on the screen behind the bar. “He’d love to see you. We could have you over for a late dinner sometime. Where do you live?” 

“I have a dorm room.” Hal’s shoulders slump, remembering that Hiram Lodge is likely going to come blundering into his room about five hours from now, likely with an older woman, possibly speaking Ukrainian. “Baldwin Hall.” 

“I stayed in a dorm my first year, too. It was nicer than all the others, the athlete’s one.” FP grins, something oddly mature in this admission. “They really make a fuss over you if you’re on a team. It kind of goes to your head.” 

“Really?” asks Hal, making a mental note to mention it to Alice -  _ preferential treatment for student athletes, possible story about valuing athletics over academics _ \- and then remembers that he’ll never have to mention story ideas to Alice ever again. He swallows and takes a sip of his beer. 

“Yeah, we have an apartment now, though.” A brief flicker of a frown passes over his face. “And a roommate.”

“Really? 

“It’d be nice if it was just the two of us, but money’s tight. And Fred’s happy. Most of the guys on the crew are older than him, so he likes being around other kids. This girl’s weird, though.” FP pulls a face. “Do you have one?” 

“A roommate?” Hal thinks of the two open suitcases abandoned on the second bed, Hiram’s lofty voice that implied he was used to bossing around servants. “Yeah, I just met him today. He wants me to rush a frat with him.” 

He waits, unsure of how he expects FP to react. He’s not sure what he wants: disdain, excitement? To talk him out of it? An impressed quirk of the eyebrow:  _ Geez, Coop, didn’t think that was your scene.  _

But FP’s face is unreadably straight as he considers this information. “I’ve heard it’s better to do it with a friend.” He sips his cola. “You can look out for each other.” 

“Are you in one?” Hal asks. 

“Sure,” FP answers, surprising him. “Just by name, though, they don’t make me go to meetings or anything. Zeta Gamma’s the athletics frat. I don’t go to parties anymore since I’ve been on the wagon.” 

“But they didn’t make you go through initiation..” 

“Sure they did.” FP grins, winking at him like they’re in on some joke. “That was before Halloween. Piece of cake.” 

He sucks down a mouthful of soda, the straw making an ugly noise against the bottom of the glass. Suddenly Hal feels bewilderingly lonely, as though he and FP were separated by a gulf as wide as the three hundred miles that had previously been between them. FP’s fidgeting with the silver ring, and whatever the significance of the jewelry, the gesture cuts straight to Hal’s heart. FP had someone. No, it couldn’t be easy, but … FP’s life here seemed steady and sure in a way his hadn’t been in a long time. The sobriety chip alone pointed to vast progress and self-improvement. There was no good way to put it: Hal was jealous of him. 

_ Do you know how hard he must have worked for that chip, _ the voice in Hal’s head chastises him.  _ He deserves it. What have you done to be proud of?  _

It’s getting heavy, being in his own head. He looks around the bar, trying to keep himself from letting any of this show on his face. A stranger waves at him, and he starts before realizing it’s FP the boy had been greeting. 

FP slaps the table suddenly, eyes on the guy who’d waved. “Let’s go play pool. Come on.” He herds Hal out of the booth, a sturdy arm over his shoulders, towards a scarred and battered pool table in the far corner. Hal barely has time to grab his beer. The people who had been crowding about abandon their game, deferring to FP with grins and bold greetings. They stand politely back from him as he takes a cue, tossing one to Hal and grinding a square of chalk hard onto the point. 

Through blurring eyes Hal takes him in in fragments: his disarming smile, neatened hair, the carefree motions of his hands. Hal drops his head, staring very hard at the unvacuumed emerald carpet, worn by generations of shoes. 

He does his best not to cry. 


	5. Penelope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter is called penelope but it starts with fps perspective cuz thats just how it is now. i dont think i am designating one viewpoint per chapter anymore we are gonna switch it up some. and they will be shorter cuz im weary. is this chapter past tents? present tents? yes. 
> 
> this chapter is dedicated to alexa thank you for all your insight on penelope's backstory and viewpoint i couldn't have done it without you! im happy to deliver a penelope centric chapter at last even if its all exposition. 
> 
> idk why im setting myself up to write sorority and fraternity stuff except that im a glutton for punishment. we are all gonna stretch our imaginations when i get going on this subject ok.

Fred’s already up when FP wakes on Monday morning, dressed and standing in front of the mirror at the foot of their bed while he combs his damp hair. For some reason the sight of him ready to leave, lunchbag already packed and sitting on the dresser, drives a spike of annoyance into FP’s heart. He kicks the tangled sheets off his legs and props himself up on his elbows. 

“What, are you sneaking out without saying goodbye?” 

FP glances at the clock on his nightstand and then the drawn shades over the window, sun streaming in brightly around them despite that it’s still before seven. Fred raises his eyes to FP’s in the mirror, his face the picture of surprise at FP’s outburst. 

“What’s going on?” Fred sets the comb down and tugs at the collar of his flannel shirt, straightening it. “You’ve been a cranky baby ever since Gladys moved in.” 

“A what?” FP sits up and scoots down to the end of the bed. 

“You know what I mean. You’ve been pouting all the time, and…” Fred turns, a slow, relieved smile gathering over his face as he recognizes FP’s playful expression. “You heard me,” he taunts. “You’re a cranky-” 

Fred cuts himself off with a yelp of dismay as FP grabs him and pulls him over the footboard onto the bed. He plants a hand hard on FP’s chest, trying to wriggle out of his grip. 

“I’m a what?” FP threatens, throwing an arm around Fred’s neck and wrapping his legs around him to hold him still. 

“You know what you are!” FP has him pinned in a wrestling hold, and Fred squirms, trying to use his slight frame at an advantage to slip backward out of FP’s grip. He gets stuck halfway there. “You’re a big, cranky baby and you’re jealous.” 

“Say that again,” FP demands playfully, pretending to tighten his arm around Fred’s throat. Fred pushes him off again, and FP can’t help but note the strength in the movement. Fred’s been gaining muscle since he started working regularly, and FP’s transfixed by the definition of his arms, the power and control in his gestures. His heart picks up a little when Fred slaps his chest again. 

“Stop it!” Fred’s grinning, looking like he doesn’t mind at all. “I have to go to work.” 

“Don’t.” FP pulls Fred close to him by his forearm, presses his mouth to Fred’s ear. Fred’s bicep is warm and tense under his hand. “Stay home and play hooky with me. I’ll blow off all my classes.” 

“Don’t tempt me.” Fred kisses him lightly on the nose and wiggles out of FP’s chokehold. “I’m going. But when I get back-” 

“When you get back what?” FP asks when Fred lets it trail off, readjusting his collar again. Fred sticks his tongue out. 

“That’s up to you. Now stop being so grumpy.” 

“Aye, aye.” FP says and pretends to salute. There’s nothing as beautiful to him as Fred’s laugh - the sound of it makes his insecurity melt like sugar. 

Fred comes close to the bed, leaning in for another kiss. “You know how much I love you, right?” There’s a playful shine to his eyes, but his voice couldn’t be more genuine. 

“I guess.” FP kisses his cheek, the kind of kiss he used to watch Fred’s parents give one another before school. Fred cups his face and looks deep into FP’s eyes, FP staring at the gold sparkle in Fred’s chocolate-brown. 

“I’m sorry,” FP apologizes - it’s impossible not to with Fred so warm and gentle and inches from his face. He felt his face begin to burn. “I didn’t know I was making you uncomfortable. I guess I was feeling left out, but I didn’t know if you picked up on it, and-” 

“I love you,” Fred repeats seriously. 

FP’s heart stops and then starts beating even faster. That was something FP took for granted about his boyfriend: Fred knew his insecurities inside out, and he didn’t tease when it mattered. Most of the time, anyway. Maybe he  _ had _ been sulking all week, but only because Fred and Gladys hadn’t seen fit to include him in their brand-new twosome. They’d been out at some improv show the whole night before, and had already been throwing jokes FP wasn’t in on back and forth since she’d moved in. 

“Oh, by the way, I told Gladys you’d help her put up some more shelves this morning.” 

“You did what?” FP grouches. 

“Love you, bye!” Fred leaps onto the bed and kisses him loudly on the cheek before scurrying off down the hallway. FP hears the door of the duplex swing shut below him, breaking the silence of the early hour. 

FP yawns and wraps himself back in the blankets, eyeing the clock radio. He didn’t have classes until the afternoon, and could afford to sleep in. He felt a flicker of guilt that he was doing so when Fred couldn’t say the same: Fred could scamper around all he liked in the mornings, but FP had seen the huge dark circles under his eyes that meant he was wearing himself to the bone. He’d been slipping into bed late all week, asleep before his head landed on FP’s arm. FP hadn’t even had time to tell him about Hal coming back to Riverdale. 

Maybe he could convince him to take a day off, FP hoped, still feeling residual guilt from their argument. They could go somewhere together, relax like they used to. His tired thoughts turn to images of Fred smiling at him from the prow of a canoe, Fred in the passenger seat of their beater car, screaming along to the radio like he did when they were growing up. 

_ The shelves _ , he thought fuzzily as he closed his eyes. Well, if Gladys was such a feminist she could figure it out herself. He was going to dream about spoiling his boyfriend and wake up whenever he wanted. 

Feeling lighter than he had in awhile, FP fell back asleep. 

* * *

Penelope’s heart was pounding as she walked across the brilliant green campus, heading for her dorm room. With the arrival of October the trees had just begun to change colour, framing the university buildings in leaves that were speckled with yellow and gold. Dickenson Hall, her dorm, was especially pretty, coated in a climbing ivy that made it look every bit as beautiful as the photos she had seen of fall in New Hampshire. Penelope clutched her purse in her hands and walked with a spring in her step, mentally reliving the events of the past hour. 

She could hear voices inside as she reached her door, which was firmly shut, and paused to listen. 

“You are so beautiful.” A man’s voice, deep and husky, and then a girl’s warm laughter. If Penelope hadn’t known better she would have thought someone had left her roommate’s TV set on to a soap opera. But no, her roommate’s life was actually better than any soap opera episode. 

She knocks lightly, and immediately second-guesses herself. There’s a pause and a squeaking of bedsprings before Sierra, Penelope’s roommate, flings the door wide open. 

“Penelope, hi!” It was still early in the morning, and Sierra was in fuzzy slippers and the adorably oversized football jersey that she wore to bed. Penelope blushed, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment at having knocked when Sierra had a boy over. 

“Is it okay that I-?” 

“Of course it is! Come in.” Sierra walks back to her bed, where a single red rose is lying on the duvet. “Tom just came by to walk me to class.” She switches her gaze to her boyfriend. “She knows about us, Tom, don’t worry about it.” 

Penelope turns her eyes to the third person in the room, who was awkwardly hovering by Sierra’s closet, well out of sight from the door. Tom Keller was fully dressed, in a tight t-shirt and jeans that showed off his well-defined chest muscles. He gave Penelope an awkward smile and wave. 

Tom had never been anything but nice to Penelope in the month she’d known him, but she still felt immediately shy. For one thing, Tom was their RA and a full three years older than her, and for another thing he was gorgeous. Not Penelope’s type, really - though she was still figuring out what that meant - but gorgeous all the same. 

Her mother would be scandalized if she knew Penelope was staying in a co-ed dorm, which made it all the more exhilarating. Bathrooms were separate and boys and girls had largely same-sex roommates, but Rose still would have died of embarrassment if she’d seen Penelope squeezing around rowdy young men to get to the shower. Their other RA was a red-haired girl named Mary who Penelope found both amazing and intimidating. She wanted badly for Mary to like her, but so far the only interaction they’d had was when she’d knocked at their room four nights ago and asked Sierra to turn down her stereo. 

Sierra had flopped on her bed and was touching up her toenail polish, seemingly oblivious to her boyfriend’s discomfort. “I’m almost done!” she promises, as though reading Penelope’s mind and Tom’s awkward shifting. “I just have to get dressed quickly. Penelope, which one?” 

She points to her dresser, where two outfits are laid out over the top drawer. Sierra sweeps her long braids over her shoulder and gives her roommate a dazzling smile. “Your outfits always look so good.” 

The offhand comment shoots a dizzying blur of happiness straight to Penelope’s chest. It had been Penelope’s decision to buy a whole new wardrobe to start her year at Riverdale State, frequenting stores that she would never have stepped foot in in her old life. She had never even been shopping on her own, and had relied on frighteningly confident saleswomen and a handful of drugstore fashion magazines to guide her instincts. Her closet held a mix of cotton, polyester, and corduroy, fabrics that her mother, Rose, would never have let touch her only daughter’s skin. But that was the point - to be as far from Rose’s conception of what Penelope should do and wear as possible. She was determined to start her new life with a clean slate, being her own person. 

Whoever that was. 

“I like this one,” she offers shyly, indicating Sierra’s velvety black miniskirt and an athletic-looking crop top that managed to look polished and classy when Sierra wore it. The other was cute too - a pair of black overalls over a neon-patterned blouse, but Penelope didn’t want Sierra to think she was immature. Sierra beamed, snatching up the clothes and bouncing into the bathroom. She left the door half-open, and Penelope conscientiously became very interested in the scenery out the window. 

Tom sat carefully at the end of Sierra’s bed, moving aside some cassette tapes to sit on the blanket folded at the bottom. Sierra wasn’t too messy - Penelope, who was neat and tidy herself, would have been miserable if she was - but she bounced from obligation to obligation so quickly that the room always invariably ended up strewn with her belongings. By contrast, Penelope’s side looked plain: she’d left it purposefully a little bare, still uncertain about how the new Penelope would decorate. The few things she’d brought from home sat tidily on her nightstand, and a single poster hung above her well-made bed: an illustration of a tarot card that she’d bought with Sierra at the student welcoming fair. 

Penelope wiggled her foot, wondering when she’d get to tell Sierra her news. Well, no time like the present. Maybe it was cool to act like Tom wasn’t even there. 

“You’ll never guess where I was,” she called through the bathroom door. Sierra’s voice floated back brightly. 

“Where?” 

Penelope straightened herself up importantly. “Well, I went to the coffee shop this morning, and I happened to run into Hermione Reyes. She was incredibly busy, of course, but I sat with her for awhile.” 

Sitting opposite Hermione - easily the prettiest and most confident girl Penelope had ever met - had been the most exciting part of her day. She could be named first chair in the school orchestra later that afternoon, and it would still have been the most exciting part of her day. Sierra’s voice floats through the open door. 

“Hermione, president of the Sigmas?” 

“Yes, and I got to tell her how excited I was to pledge, and she seemed like she might like me. She’s so pretty, Sierra, and I mentioned you, of course, and she said she was excited to see so many first-years pledging.” Penelope’s excitement causes her to tap her foot even faster, Tom on the bed opposite looking awkwardly in between them. 

Sierra appears in the bathroom doorway, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. “That’s so cool,” she enthuses, sounding both upbeat and cooler than it all. Despite Sierra’s similar ambition to pledge Sigma Alpha Phi - the two girls had bonded over it in their first week - her roommate never seemed as concerned as Penelope about the upcoming rush season. Probably because she was interesting, beautiful, confident, and had no worries about getting in. “I’m so glad we’re rushing together.” 

For the second time in that conversation, Penelope straightens up under the warm glow of her roommate’s interest. Sierra already knew that Penelope had been dreaming about joining the sorority since she had found out what it was. It seemed like the answer to her prayers - a ready-made group of female friends who would love her, support her, and teach her how to be her own person. Somehow she had pinned all her hopes and dreams on becoming a Sigma, and had been obsessively learning about Sigma Alpha Phi since she’d first stepped onto campus. 

As an added bonus, she and Sierra would be spending even more time together if they both got in. Penelope knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the other Sigma girls would take care of her the way she so desperately craved. And she would return the favor! Sure, she was only a lowly first-year now, but under the wing of the smartest and most wonderful girls on campus she could eventually become one of their most cherished members. 

She could even be president one day - something she thought she’d never hope for again after her disastrous high school attempt to run for student council. She was simply too weird to vote for at her old school - but here it was different. She’d even changed her last name to shrug off her old identity - since the day she’d moved in, she’d been introducing herself as Penelope Brooke. Penelope Brooke was fun, humble, mature, sophisticated without being too privileged, and best of all she fit right in at Riverdale State. She was eighteen, almost broke, and not tied down by anything. 

Sierra beams at Tom. “Ready to go?” She pushes him before her out the door - apart from Penelope, no one in the dorm was supposed to know they were dating. Sierra scoops up her bookbag and gives Penelope a jazzy wave over her shoulder. Penelope knew she was off to her political science class, and would probably go out to eat with Tom after. Maybe she’d be able to find them in the cafeteria and join them for lunch - or maybe, she thought with a thrill, she’d bump into Hermione or some more of the Sigma girls again. If she could endear herself to them now, it would be all the better when rush week started. 

The red rose lies abandoned on Sierra’s unmade bed. Penelope, who had a fondness for flowers and couldn’t stand to see it wilt, quickly picked it up and plopped it into an almost-full glass of water on her roommate’s nightstand. Someone - probably Tom - had trimmed all the thorns off the stem. She smiled at her own gesture: Sierra would be happy that the rose hadn’t died. 

Roses usually made her think of her old life, especially red ones. Those, and maple syrup - she avoided it every time she went to the cafeteria. But she was suddenly a little envious that Sierra’s boyfriend was bringing her roses. It seemed gently and unutterably romantic. 

Penelope’s heart suddenly pounds a little faster. What if Hermione thought she wasn’t Sigma material because she didn’t have a boyfriend? Most of the girls would have one, wouldn’t they? She wasn’t sure. She’d have to ask Sierra after class. Hopefully Sierra wasn’t sick of or suspicious from her questions - Penelope felt like she’d been grilling her since they met on how to live a normal eighteen-year-old life. 

She’d never done it before. 

She glances at the phone on her neat-as-a-pin desk and thinks suddenly about calling Clifford. She wrote him the occasional letter - they were still unsent, granted, waiting in her desk drawer for her to mail them with an unassuming postmark - but she hadn’t heard her brother’s voice in months. 

Brother. Her blood went cold at the slip-up. No, husband. Ex-husband. Dammit. 

Forget it. Penelope bounds to her feet, crossing to the bathroom mirror and quickly combing out her hair. She wished sometimes that she had the courage to do something different with it - it hung long and red down her back, pulled away from her face in a headband. She’d leafed through a hairstyle magazine a few nights ago, but hadn’t found anything that felt right. Sierra had changed her hairstyle at least a dozen times in the month they’d been at school, and she looked absolutely perfect every time. Maybe once she pledged Sigma, one of her new sorority sisters would give her a makeover. 

_ I am Penelope Brooke, _ she chants to herself as she fixes her hair, sealing her past life firmly behind her.  _ Brooke, Brooke, Brooke.  _

It was exhilarating - having nothing to think about beyond first-year classes and pledging a sorority. She threw herself a dazzling smile - a Sigma Alpha Phi smile. Everything would go right this year. It had to. It was already more than she’d ever dreamed. 

Crossing the room, she picked up her violin case and her sheet music. Her first music class wouldn’t start until nine-thirty, but she’d discovered the rehearsal hall stayed open all day for students to practice. The music building was easily one of Penelope’s favourite parts about the campus - with brand-new wood walls and plush, comforting rehearsal rooms, it was utterly beautiful. It was both modern enough to shake her out of her old life, and yet gave her the sense of being enveloped in safety and warmth. Everyone was politely quiet and charming, and when she slid her hand along the glossy wood panelling, vibrating with life, she finally knew that she was where she was meant to be. 

If she was going to meet a boyfriend, it would be perfect if it was there. She wished, not for the first time, that Sierra played an instrument. But while Penelope was planning to major in music, Sierra already had her major planned out: she’d explained to Penelope one night while they were crunching potato chips in front of Sierra’s mini-tv that she wanted to study criminal law. It was a perfectly ordinary evening for Sierra, but for Penelope, who had never had potato chips or a sleepover in all her life, that friday night had been extraordinarily thrilling. Sierra liked being her roommate - she’d said it herself. The thought made her unutterably happy. 

Smoothing down her plaid skirt (71% polyester) and her matching blazer (29% rayon), she did a pirouette in front of the mirror and skipped to the door with her violin case in hand. She loved the piece she was working on for class, Hermione Reyes knew her name, and soon she’d have a social life and a support system beyond her wildest dreams. 

Locking the door behind her and slipping the ribbon-tied key into her purse, Penelope glanced once more at the luggage tag she’d affixed to the handle of her violin case. 

_Penelope Brooke_ was written in neat cursive, the letters shining through the clear plastic. 


End file.
